






Class P Z 7 










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A LITTLE SPLINTER OF THE LANG-SWORD 





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I 


I 

THE OUTLAWS 


OF 


RAVENHURST 


BY 


L. M. WALLACE 


/ 


Illustrations and Initials by the Author 


/ 



FRANCISCAN HERALD PRESS 
1434-38 West 51st Street 
Chicago, III. 


CVraa W 
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Copyright, 1923, by 
Franciscan Herald Press 



MAY - 9 *23 v (~L 

©C1A705434 


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CONTENTS 


C? 


Page 


INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 5 

Chapter 

I. BROWN-HEAD GOES A-FISHING. 11 

II. AN UNCLE FROM OVERSEA. 25 

III. WHEN MEN PLAY MARBLES. 33 

/ 

IV. CASTLE RAVENHURST. 47 

V. BY THE OLD FIREPLACE. 59 

VI. MY FRIEND GODFREY BERTRANDSON. 75 

VII. THE RUIN IN THE WOOD. 89 

VTII. THE TENDER MERCIES OF A COWARD.105 

IX. THE SECRET OF THE OLD FIREPLACE.119 

THE RETURN OF LANG-SWORD.129 

THE LAST STAND OF THE OLD EARL.145 

THE GUARDIANS OF THE KING.159 

THE GLORY OF THE BITTER END.177 

X. A LITTLE SPLINTER OF THE LANG-SWORD.. 193 

XI. THE ESCAPE.199 

XII. THE PERILS OF ONE DARK NIGHT.207 

XIII. MUCKLE JOHN-O ’-THE-CLEUTH.229 

XIV. OLD EDWIN AT YOUR SERVICE.245 

XV. THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY.257 

XVT. BY THE MARGIN OF THE RIVER.277 

XVII. THE LAST BLESSING.287 

SEQUEL 

Chapter 

I. IN THE HOLLOW OF GOD’S HAND.293 

II. AMERICA BUT WHERE..301 

III. OUR LADY’S HOME BEYOND THE SEA.313 


3 


























ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

A LITTLE SPLINTER OF THE LANG-SWORD. .Frontispiece 

FIRE-THE-BRAES . 37 

THE ANTLERS OF FIRE-THE-BRAES. 62 

THE RAVENHURST ESCUTCHEON.127 

LANG-SWORD .140 

SIR ANGUS GORDON.182 

MUCKLE JOHN AND GODFREY BERTRANDSON.244 

BY THE MARGIN OF THE RIVER.282 


4 









THE OUTLAWS OF 
RAVENHURST 









Introductory Chapter 


THE GRAY-CLOAKED STRANGER 



IGHT lay on the long swelling waves 
of the Chesapeake; no wind, no star, 
a murky darkness. The spars of an 
unlighted ship loomed through the 
fog and sank into fog again. Stealth¬ 
ily from the bulky gloom of the deck a dory 
swung out and slid on oiled ropes to the somber 
waters. Two seamen followed. Then down the 
ropes came an object which seemed a man with 
a bundle, wrapped in a long gray cloak. The 
dory pulled off swiftly and was swallowed by 
the fog. 

For an hour the ship swung as if at anchor, 
still no light aloft or alow, and no sound save 
the dull lapping of the waves. Then from the 
stern a bell began to toll. One slow booming 
tone rolled off and died away before the next 
one followed. As if drawn out of the fog by 
the bell’s deep calling, the dory came gliding 
back again. Two seamen were at the oars, other¬ 
wise the boat was empty. From the deck 
sounded a muffled creaking as the anchor sobbed 
up from the sea’s grip. The tide was off¬ 
shore and the ship floated out with the current, 
unlighted, silent, back into the white smother 
from which it had come. 

The wind of morning rose keen, marrow- 


7 













8 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


searching. The fog became a fine drizzling rain, turning 
to sleet. Breasting it, along lonely ways among the sand 
dunes, hurried a lean, bent man carrying a bundle under 
his cloak—a long, muddied, thread-bare garment, as gray 
as rain-soaked ashes. 

The bundle was heavy and hard to manage. It seemed 
to move of its own accord. Once in a while a sound 
came out of it, a wailing cry, “Dunkie Teewee! Take 
Dordie out, Dunkie Teewee!” 

“Sh!” whispered the man. His tone was a stern 
command, but his eyes shone with great love. The 
bundle sniffled a moment or two, then was quiet. 

After hours of tramping the man found a sheltered 
nook where the forest met the last sand dunes. Here, 
crouched between a low bank and a tree, with his own 
body shielding the bundle from the sleet, the man opened 
his cloak, loosened the piece of rough sailcloth and the 
heavy plaid shawl within. A fat fist slipped out of the 
opening, then a tousle of brown curls, a gurgling laugh, 
and a piping voice, “Dood Dunkie Teewee! Take it 
all off!” 

‘ ‘ Hush! ’ ’ came the man’s low command in a tone that 
would have been menacing except that it was so deeply 
kind. “Drink!” and he drew a leathern flask from his 
breast. 

The child drank; but all the while he stared over the 
bottle’s rim at the man—a wise, wide, baby stare. His 
eyes were blue and deep as the sea, with a flash in their 
depths that in the turning of an instant might be fun 
or fury; just now it was a puzzled and half-angry trust. 

Even in this short time the little fist which guided 
the flask was growing blue though it gripped with deft 
strength—a swordsman’s right hand still in the mak- 


THE GRAY-CLOAKED STRANGER 


9 


ing. The stranger hastened to enclose the baby in his 
warm coverings. Then pressing him closely he wound 
the long gray cloak about himself and his bundle, left 
the shelter, and hurried on through the stinging sleet. 

By mid-afternoon they had reached the top of a rough 
knob. Here the man seemed expecting to meet some¬ 
one ; for, placing himself in a spot well screened by the 
underbrush, he kept a constant eye on a little path which 
wound around the base of the hill. 

It was almost sundown before the expected one arrived, 
a gentle old man on a steady-going bay horse. By the 
round, low-crowned hat, sober clothing, and great saddle 
bags, he seemed a missionary friar passing from one 
Mass station to another. If the man of the gray cloak 
was expecting the meeting, this other person evidently 
was not; yet the stranger studied the missionary’s face 
with a look of recognition and relief. Then turning 
sharply, he slipped off in an opposite direction across the 
hill and down the other side until he reached the path 
at a point where the horseman must soon pass; though, 
as yet, he was hidden by the ridge. 

Here the stranger took his queer bundle from beneath 
his cloak and propped it up against a stump. He loosened 
the wrappings from the weary baby’s face and pressed 
upon the little brow, with its cluster of brown curls, 
one long, long kiss. The child awoke and cried out to him. 
Perhaps he feared the horseman would come before time. 
Perhaps the stranger could not trust himself farther 
lest he fail to carry out his plan. The gray-cloaked 
figure whirled and darted up the hill into a thicket of 
underwood. 

The child, left suddenly alone, cried out at first as 
if it were some game; then, cross from weariness, he 


10 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


screamed and struggled with, his heavy coverings. At 
last, as if too weary to battle longer, his voice dropped 
to a convulsed sobbing, “Dunkie! Dunkie! Dunkie 
Teewee!’ * 

Far up the slope the stranger knelt between a ledge 
and a twisted mass of brush and vine. His clenched 
hands were out-stretched on the rock, gripped upon each 
other till the finger nails bit into the lean flesh. His 
hollow, weather-furrowed face was set by the clenched 
will behind it, but his eyes were wet with an agony of 
love and longing. 

The child’s screams must have reached the rider plod¬ 
ding around the hill; for when he came into sight, he 
was hurrying his horse and searching from left to right. 
When he did find the wailing bundle, he wasted little 
time in examination. His greatest fear seemed to be lest 
the child suffer from the increasing cold; and, taking 
off his own outer coat, he wrapped the little one even 
more warmly before remounting. 

The gray-cloaked stranger had not stirred from his 
scouting point, following with his eyes every movement 
of the missionary until the rider passed out of sight 
down the winding path. Then he rose, twisted his sod¬ 
den cloak more tightly around him and turned back 
across the forest to the sand dunes of the dank and 
moaning shore. 



CHAPTER NUMBER ONE 
BROWN-HEAD GOES A-FISHING 











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Chapter I 

BROWN-HEAD GOES A-FISHING 



WO little boys ran along a Maryland 
path. The brown-headed one car¬ 
ried the poles and the bait. The 
red-headed one held an old flintlock 
gun. 

“Joel Shannon, what in the name 
of common sense have you for bait? We won’t catch a 
fish till the dear knows when,” grumbled the brown- 
head. “They’re cabbage worms! Not a blessed thing 
but cabbage worms!” 

“Well, what do you want? That’s the best kind to 
get. Why, George, a fish can have white worms any 
time he wants to nose along the bank; but he doesn’t 
have green worms every day. Anyway, I had to clean 
the cabbage pit this morning.” 

“Yah! Thought you had lazy man’s reason.” 

“ ’Tisn’t either lazy man’s reason.” 

“Red-head’s temper’s red. Better run. He’ll kill 
me dead,” mocked George, leaping over a log and rac¬ 
ing down the hill. 

“You’ll take that back!” panted Joel, dashing after 
him, the old gun bouncing up and down on his shoulder. 

“Like to see you make me!” 

But, alas for Mr. Brown-head. His foot caught in a 
vine. Down he went. Joel sprang astride his back, and 
began bouncing up and down. 

1 * Take it back! ’ ’ 


13 



14 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“N-n-n-o-ooo-oo-o, I won’t!” 

* ‘ Take it back!” 

* ‘ I-ii-ee-ii-wo-wwo-ww-wo won’t! ” 

“You’ve got to! I’ll bounce till you do! Ouch! Oh, 
my foot!” Joel caught his big toe in both hands. With 
a wiggle, George was free. 

“Yah! Have to take it back! Have I?” Over the 
log he sprang, then paused. Joel was still hugging his 
toe. “What’s the matter with you?” 

“Got a splinter in my toe!” 

“Oh, you baby! Crying for a splinter!” 

* ‘ Guess you’d cry if you had it! It hurts! ’ ’ 

“Let’s see! Oh, I say, I guess that does hurt! That’s 
not a splinter, Joel. It’s a bee’s stinger. Here, I’ll pull 
it out for you. ’ ’ 

“Ouch! Oh! That’s better!” 

“Here’s some mud. Put that on. It’ll take the sting 
out a little.” 

‘ ‘ Does help some! Say! I wonder if it was a honey¬ 
bee or just an old bumble?” 

“Honey-bee! Here he is under this violet.” 

“Poke him out. Maybe daddy will hunt for the bee 
tree. ’ ’ 

“Here you are, Mr. Bee,” cried George drawing the 
offender out. 

‘ ‘ Poor little thing, I did you more harm than you did 
to me. Must have stepped right on it. Look there. Its 
wing is broken and a couple of legs, too. Don’t wonder 
you stung me back, old fellow.” 

“Say, we had better be going, or we’ll get what Paddy 
gave the drum. You know mother said she didn’t send 
us to go gallivantin’ in the woods. She sent us to fish.” 

Away they went jumping over logs, dodging under 



BROWN-HEAD GOES A-FISHING 


15 


bushes, setting all the blossoming sprays of Maytime 
dancing about them as they ran. They paused out of 
breath on the bank of the stream. Dropping down on 
the moss, they watched the fish as they slipped from 
stone to stone far down in the pool below. 

“Isn’t it pretty?” whispered George. “See how the 
white aspen limbs turn over and meet, and the green 
leaves go all over like a roof. I wonder if those grand 
churches over the sea look like that. ’ ’ 

“The w T ater is a good looking-glass. Now isn’t it? 
We couldn’t call the alders pews, or make a church of 
the aspens, for we are in it. We are barefooted and 
your face is dirty!” 

“So is yours.” 

‘ ‘ That’s about the only thing that is the same, though. 
We are the least alike for a pair of twins—” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I don’t know! Our eyes are the same color. ’ ’ 
George was digging in the black mold. 

“Now, you just look again. Our eyes are blue; but 
•yours are dark, almost black; and mine are blue like 
skimmed milk. Your nose is so long and there’s a hump 
on it. Mine turns up on the end. Your jaws are as 
square as old Dick’s bulldog. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Say! I ’ll throw you into the creek if you call me a 
bulldog.” 

There was a touch of half-conscious irritation in 
his tone, as if the subject were not pleasing to him; 
yet Brown-head hunting by a rotting stump for 
worms could not possibly have held in memory baby 
Brown-head in his bundle propped against the selfsame 
stump by the gray-cloaked stranger some eight years 
before. But childhood’s intuition is an uncanny thing. 

“I’m glad we’re not as much alike as the little twins 


16 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


are. Mother can’t tell Jim from Johnny, herself. This 
morning Jim was out behind the wood pile crying. 
Johnny stole the cream to feed his cat. Mother came 
along and spanked Jim for it. I’m glad we’re not alike; 
I might get a switching every time you need one.” 

“Guess you wouldn’t get a lick amiss. Hush, will 
you ? I’ve got a bite! ’ ’ 

“You won’t catch a thing with cabbage worms. I’m 
going to get some bait.” 

But Joel was not listening. His eyes were on his 
wooden bob. Under it went. He jerked the line sharply 
—then drew in. “Yah! Cabbage worms won’t catch 
fish! Look at that one, will you? Half as long as my 
arm! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Shish! What’s over in those bushes ? ’ ’ 

“Where?” 

“The big ones on the other side of those cat-tails. 
Watch ’em wiggle!” 

“Maybe it’s a turtle!” 

“No, it’s bigger.” 

“Bet it’s that old fox! Daddy said to watch for him.” 
George reached for the gun. “You won’t steal any more 
of our chickens, old boy.” 

“Ready?” Joel was picking up a stone. “I’ll bring 
him out for you.” 

“Let it fly!” 

The stone hit the bushes fairly. There was a snarl. 
The branches parted, and out sprang, not a fox, but a 
large brown bear. She looked up at them and growled, 
putting one foot in the water. The boys waited for no 
more, but dashed up the bank. 

Joel gave a sharp cry. George turned. “What is the 
matter with you ? Come on! She’s swimming! ’ ’ 


BROWN-HEAD GOES A-FISHING 


17 


“I stepped on my fishhook!” 

‘ * Pnll it out then! Quick! She’s coming, I tell you! ’’ 

‘ ‘It’s all the way in!” 

11 Here! Let me get hold of it! ” 

‘ ‘ Don’t pull it! Ow! ’’ 

“You’ve got to stand it! She’s halfway oyer.” 
George pulled with all his strength. “It’s coming!” 

“Oh! Don’t! Oh!” 

‘ ‘ There now! It’s out! ’ ’ 

i 1 Oh! I can’t step on it! ” 

“You’ve got to. She’s almost here!’’ 

“Ouch! Oh, I can’t! See, how it’s swelling!” 

“You’ve turned your ankle! Lean on me. Hop! 
Come on! I’ll help you.” 

“Go on, George! Save yourself! There is no use in 
her getting both of us.” 

“She’ll get both or neither! Do you think I’d leave 
you? Here, try to climb this tree!” 

“Too little! She can climb it. Go on, I say! Save 
yourself. You can run. Go on, George. Quick! She’ll 
get you, too! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Tree’s better than nothing. Climb! I ’ll boost you! 
She’ll not get either of us if I can help it. Quit your 
crying! Climb!” 

At last poor Joel was astride a crotch high up in the 
tree. George fastened him with their belts, so that he 
could not fall; for the lad’s face was pale with pain and 
fear. 

“She don’t want to cross the pool,” whispered Joel. 
“She’s going downstream. Maybe she won’t come at 
aU.” 

“Say, I’ve made a mess of it.” 

“What’s the matter now?” 


18 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Look out on that limb. It’s a cub, isn’t it?” 

“We’re in for it. She’ll come all right.” 

George cut a branch, lopped off the twigs, and tied 
his knife to it. Then reaching out he poked at the cub’s 
feet. The little one whined and crawled farther out on 
the branch. 

“The old bear hears it. She’s coming,” came Joel’s 
voice in warning. “Get him down quickly! Fox-shot 
won’t kill bears. I’m loading the gun again.” 

“Put in all you have,” called George, still poking at 
the woolly ball. 

The guns of those days were muzzle-loading. One 
could put in as much powder and shot as was needed. 
The cub kept backing out on the branch, snarling and 
calling its mother as it went. George gave a sharp cut. 
The young one growled and sprang back. Down went 
the cub, squalling as it fell from bough to bough, and 
making the young tree shake wildly. George plunged 
forward, lost his balance, caught himself again, and 
climbed into the main fork of the tree. 

“She’s out of the water!” called Joel. “Do you want 
the gun?” 

“No, wait till she’s nearer, I might miss.” 

The old bear came straight toward them. The cub 
began to crawl toward its mother, but whimpered and 
sat down on its woolly haunches. The fall had hurt it. 
Mother Bruin hurried forward, and licked the bruises 
lovingly. Her baby was injured, and she was in no very 
good humor herself; still she seemed more of a mind to 
care for her cub than to punish her enemies. 

“Maybe she’ll go off with it.” 

“Wish I hadn’t dropped my knife. See how near 
she is to it. She may step on it any minute. There she 


BROWN-HEAD GOES A-FISHING 


19 


goes! Listen to her growl! Guess it hurts some! Say, 
she’s mad! Lookout! She ’ll shake the tree! Hold on! ” 

George had need to take his own advice, for the hear 
struck the tree with all her force. He clung desperately. 
It seemed every moment that he would fall. Joel’s 
wounded foot struck back and forth against the trunk 
till he moaned with pain; but he held the old gun tightly, 
and kept the muzzle pointed away from his brother. 
Three times the old bear charged the tree, then she 
began to climb. 

“Quick, Joel!” cried George, “the gun!” 

“Keep the muzzle out!” 

“I have it now!” 

‘ ‘ Shoot quick! Look how high she is! ” 

“Might miss! Say, you pray that I don’t!” 

“Shoot, will you! She’s almost up to you!” 

“Might miss! It’s all up if I do!” 

‘ ‘ She ’ll have your foot in a minute! Shoot, will you! ’ ’ 

George was very still. He was looking straight into 
that great, red mouth. He thrust the muzzle against 
the shining teeth and fired. There was a roar—the tree 
shook to its very roots—the dull thud of something fall¬ 
ing—below, the blinding smoke. Joel rubbed his eyes, 
trying to see. 

“George!” he cried, “0 George!” There was no 
sound from below. ‘ ‘ George! 0 George! Are you hurt, 
brother ?’’ 

The smoke was beginning to lift. Joel could see dimly. 
Down at the foot of the tree lay a bleeding heap—the 
hear all but covering George—both were still. 

“George! 0 George! Wiggle your foot if you hear 
me.” The bare foot lay still. “He’s dead!” sobbed 


20 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Joel. “Oh! what shall I do? I can’t reach the buckle 
where he fastened me. It’s way round behind the trunk. 
If I could only get down to him! George! 0 George! 
Move just a little bit! He’s dead, and I can’t get 
down.” The pain of the lad’s own wound was growing 
worse. He leaned against the tree and sobbed in help¬ 
lessness. 

“Oh, how quiet it is! Maybe no one will ever come. 
It’s so still. Just only the birds a-singing. That’s a 
woodpecker over the river. Won’t any one ever come? 
He’s been there an hour, I know, and he doesn’t move 
at all. He’s dead. I know he’s dead, and I’m not doing 
a thing for him. There’s blood all over the grass. It 
must be ’most supper time. Why don’t they hunt us? 
Mother doesn’t know whereabouts in the woods we are. 
Maybe they won’t start to hunt till way in the night.” 

The rebound of the tree had left him almost suspended 
by the straps. He tried again to reach the buckle, but 
could not. The strain was making him faint. He rested 
his head on his arms and cried again. 

“There isn’t anyone to help us. 0 George, do say 
something! Wiggle! Kick! If it’s only your toe moves. 
I can’t stand it. He’s dead and I’m dying. I know I 
am. Things are so black and swimmy. I’m so queer 
inside. There’s no one to help us. No one can even 
hear us. But God, God can hear us, I forgot.” 

Then he prayed as he had never dreamed of praying. 
There was a strange, sweet sense of One unseen but 
very near. The loneliness was gone. 

“That woodpecker keeps tapping all the time. It’s 
such a queer one, too. It goes click-a-clack. Maybe it’s 
a cricket—no; nor frogs, they don’t go that way, either. 



BROWN-HEAD GOES A-FISHING 


21 


It sounds like chopping. Wonder if it’s daddy out in 
the new clearing. If I can hear him, he can hear me.” 
Joel made a horn of his hands and called, ‘ ‘Dad! 0 
daddy!” His voice was pitiful and weak. The sound 
of the chopping went on steadily. “He can’t hear me.” 
The child drew a long, long breath. “Daddy! 0, 0 
dad!” 

The chopping ceased a moment, then went on. 

“Dad! 0,0,0 dad!” 

Clear above the voices of the woodland came an 
answering hello. There was silence for a while; then a 
call somewhat nearer. Another after a while, and then 
a giant red-bearded horseman came in sight on the hill 
beyond the river. 

“0 daddy!” How joyful the weak voice sounded. 

“Who’s there? What’s wrong?” 

‘ ‘ A bear. It’s killed George. ’ ’ 

The horse sprang into the bushes again. There was 
a splashing in the creek bottom, a rattle of stones on 
the bank; and John Shannon came crashing through the 
alders, his horse white with foam. He sprang from his 
saddle, threw the body of the bear backward, and passed 
his hand over the boy’s body. 

11 Heart’s beating still! Thank God! No bones broken! 
The blood must be from the bear. There’s no cut of 
any size. Just stunned, I think. Small thanks to you, 
Joel. Why didn’t you pull the bear off? He is nearly 
smothered. ’ ’ 

“I couldn’t, daddy,” came Joel’s voice weakly. “I 
couldn’t reach the buckle.” 

John Shannon looked up and saw the swollen, blood¬ 
stained foot and the little white face above. “Well, 
son, are you hurt, too? Did the bear bite you?” 


22 


THE OUTLAWS OP RAVENHURST 


“No, daddy. I stepped on my fishhook and I must 
have turned my ankle.” 

“Poor little lad! Well, you will have to be a man 
and stand it a while longer. George needs me more,” 
and there was nothing in his tone to mark which of the 
two boys tugged more at his heartstrings. 

Shannon raised Brown-head in his brawny arms and 
carried him down to the pool. As he plunged him into 
the water, the lad gave a quick gasp and opened his 
eyes. 

“0 dad!” he cried as he caught sight of the red- 
bearded face. “0 dad! The bear! It’ll get Joel! He 
can’t run!” 

“The bear won’t hurt anybody now.” 

“Is she dead? Did I hit her?” 

“Hit her! You blew her whole head off. You don’t 
need to fill the gun chock-full, even to kill a bear. You 
blew the gun up, too, boy.” 

‘ * 0 daddy, did I break it ? And they cost so much ! ’ ’ 

“Never mind the cost this time, son. It’s the boy I’m 
thinking about. It’s the mercy of the Lord you didn’t 
blow your own head off; but there’s only a powder burn. 
We’ll say a rosary this night in thanksgiving.” Shan¬ 
non laid the boy on the moss. “I am going back to Joel 
now,” he said. 

The wounded foot was soon bathed and bound. “Now, 
what’s your dad going to do? One dead bear, one live 
cub, one wounded hunter, and one dead one; they must 
all go home right now, and there’s only one horse. We’ll 
put the bear across the saddle. Joel, you can ride be¬ 
hind. Maybe the cub will follow. I’ll carry George.” 

“No, no, daddy! I can walk,” cried the “dead” 


BROWN-HEAD GOES A-FISHING 


23 


hunter suddenly sitting up. “I’m not hurt—just feel 
kind of shaky inside, that’s all—and you’ve been chop¬ 
ping all day.” 

“Too tired to carry a bit of a boy like you! Sure, 
you think you’re as big as a man since you killed a bear 
all by yourself. I’ll carry you with small trouble; but 
next time you two go hunting, I’ll send to the fort for 
the army surgeon and hospital corps to care for the dead 
and wounded.” 






CHAPTER NUMBER TWO 
AN UNCLE FROM OVERSEA 






















Chapter II 

AN UNCLE FROM OVERSEA 


HERE is mother at the edge of the 
clearing,” called Joel from his 
perch on the horse’s back. “I 
wonder what brought her away out 
here ? ’ ’ 

“Well, if the little twins have left 
their mother to bring in the cows, they ’ll hear from me, ’ ’ 
said John Shannon sternly. 

“I don’t think she’s after the cows. It looks to me 
as if she’s crying.” 

“Crying! Are you sure of it? Something is wrong 
then. Slip down, George, you ’ll have to walk now, ’ ’ and 
John Shannon hurried through the woods with the boys 
following as fast as they were able. 

“Mary!” he called as soon as they were within speak¬ 
ing distance. “What has gone wrong? Whatever it 
is, don’t cry that way. We’ll get through somehow, for 
sure and God’s good.” 

“They’ve come for George!” she sobbed. 

“Don’t you be taking that to heart now. It’s one 
thing for them to come for him, and another to get him. 
I’ve had that boy too long to give him up at a minute’s 
notice. They will prove their right before they take him; 
and we won’t cross that bridge until we come to it, little 
woman.” 

“It’s proof enough they have, and more’s the pity. 
The minute I saw the gentleman, I knew in my heart he 



27 



28 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


must be kin to George. He is like enough to the boy to 
be his father, but he is only an uncle. There are letters, 
too; one from his Excellency, Cecil Calvert, and one with 
the king’s own hand and seal. They be great folk, John, 
and no mistake. The squire, too, is with them. They 
took Jim and Johnny till we deliver the boy. Oh, there’s 
no way at all, at all. We’ll have to give George up.” 

“Calvert and the king and the squire, too?” said 
Shannon slowly. “We’ve come to the bridge after all. 
I’ve no right to keep another man’s son. No man would 
have the right to keep mine; but it’s hard, bitter hard. 
I love the boy.” 

“Mother,” broke in George, “they can’t take us away 
from you? Are they going to take Joel, too, and Which 
and Tother and me? I don’t understand. You won’t 
let them take us, will you, daddy ? ’ ’ 

Mary Shannon drew the boy into her arms. “You 
tell him, John, ’ ’ she sobbed. ‘ ‘ I can’t do it. ’ ’ 

“Well, there is nothing else to do but say out straight 
and blunt a thing I never meant that you should know. 
George, you are not one of the Shannons. You are not 
Joel’s twin. You are not my son; though God knows 
there is not one of my own that I love more than I love 
you, child. Friar Cornwall found you sitting by the 
roadside and brought you to us. I set you on Mary’s 
knee beside Joel; and so far as love and care go, you 
have been ours ever since. It is a bitter thing to me to 
give you up. Still, I have no right to keep you from 
your people.” 

“Oh, you were so sweet that night,” sobbed the 
woman. “I asked you your name. You put one arm 
around wee Joel and up you looked with your big blue 
eyes for all the world like a robin. ‘Me’s Dordiel’ says 


AN UNCLE FROM OVERSEA 


29 


you. ‘Mo wants Dunkie Teewee, me do!’ We thought 
by that your name was George, but the gentleman called 
you Gordon. We had no tea to give you, so you had 
to put up with milk; yet for many a day you cried for 
‘Dunkie Teewee!’ But, John,” continued Mrs. Shan¬ 
non, turning to her husband, “there is worse than the 
taking of him. I don’t like the looks of that uncle. And, 
oh, how he did curse when he saw the image of our Lady 
on the mantel. He must be downright wicked, John. 
Perhaps he will lead our lad astray.” 

“As for leading our lad astray,” said Shannon, put¬ 
ting one great hairy hand on the hoy’s shoulder, “no 
man can lead you into sin if you don’t follow him. You 
will have to stand on your own two feet and he a 
man. Remember one thing: there is nothing worth buy¬ 
ing, not fast horses nor fine houses, not even a place in 
the king’s court, if the price you pay for it is the fire 
of hell forevermore.” 

There was a clatter of hoofs on the bridge in the hol¬ 
low. “Here they come now! Good-bye, lad! We’ll say 
the beads every day till we know that you are back here 
again in Maryland, safe.” Shannon’s deep voice 
trembled. “Good-bye, boy, and God bless you.” 

“The one on the gray horse is his uncle,” said Mary, 
pointing one roughened, toil-worn hand. “You can see 
the likeness yourself, John.” 

“The boy’s face is brown and his jaw is more square,” 
said Shannon, ‘ ‘ but they are indeed alike; yet God grant 
the boy’s face may never be like that man’s. Oh, Mary, 
it is bitter hard to trust our boy to such a keeper.” 

The horsemen galloped toward them, straight across 
the sprouting corn; that was the way with great folk in 
those days. The gentleman sprang lightly from his horse 


30 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


and drew the gauntlet from his right hand. The fingers 
were long and white. There was a ring, one only; but 
the jewel in it might have shone in the king’s crown. 
He took the brown hand of the boy in his and looked 
at the face closely. 

“It is the Gordon,” he said, “but whence come all 
these bruises? There is a burn!” Turning sharply 
toward Shannon, “You will explain this.” 

“The lad loaded the gun too heavily. It was old and 
blew up with him, sir. Thanks to the mercy of God, he 
wasn’t hurt badly.” 

‘ ‘ God’s mercy! What of your own carelessness ? Al¬ 
lowing a mere babe to load a gun!” 

“Sir, here in Maryland we don’t call boys of ten, 
babies. If you think him too young to handle a gun, 
look at the bear on my horse yonder. That’s his hunt¬ 
ing bag for this afternoon—not that we send such lads 
hunting big game. The bear hunted him; but he killed 
her, sir, all alone, sir. The boys of the New World are 
not babies, sir.” 

There was just a touch of honest pride in John Shan¬ 
non’s voice. 

‘ ‘ Gordon killed yonder great beast ? ’ ’ cried the noble¬ 
man. “Ah, well, no wonder! He is the scion of the 
house of Ravenhurst. The earls were famous hunts¬ 
men, all of them. Edwin, remain and bring the skin. 
It will look well below Fire-the-Braes’ antlers, eh, God¬ 
frey? Give the fellow the reward. It is a fat purse, 
and will repay you for your trouble, my man.” 

John Shannon straightened his shoulders just a little. 
“Keep your money, your lordship,” he said bluntly. 
“The boy is yours. I have no right to keep him; but 


AN UNCLE FROM OVERSEA 


31 


I’m not selling him to you, thanking your honor the same 
for your kindness. ” 

‘ t Ah, if a man has a cabin in this new land, he fancies 
himself already a gentleman,” sneered Sir Roger Gor¬ 
don. “Martin, give the peasant his brats. Walter, bring 
Lord Gordon his horse. ’ ’ 

The twins struggled down from the soldier’s saddle 
and ran to their mother; but as Walter came forward 
with the horse, George drew his hand from his uncle’s 
grasp. “I want to say good-bye, please,” he said. 

“Walter, give the young gentleman your hand to 
mount. We have wasted too much time as it is.” 

“I’m going to stay till I say good-bye,” flashed the 
boy, “and I won’t go before.” 

“Do as you are bid, George.” It was Mary Shannon’s 
quiet voice. 

“Yes, mother,” and the boy mounted. 

The horsemen trotted back across the field and down 
the road, but the boy’s face was turned toward the wood. 
The little group among the trees dropped out of sight. 
The cabin came and went. As the last bit of smoke was 
hidden by the trees, the brave little lips began to trem¬ 
ble; and the tears came, burning hot and choking. Sir 
Roger gave a signal. The troop swung forward, leav¬ 
ing him and his nephew alone. 

“Is this the gratitude you show to the uncle who has 
come overseas in search of you ? ’ ’ 

“I wanted to say good-bye. I didn’t even kiss Joel.” 

“How could you kiss the dirty little things?” 

“0 sir, they are not dirty. They just get dirty after 
mother washes them. You see when the little ones are 
making mud pies—but you don’t understand. They 
are my folk, sir. Joel, he’s my twin. I mean, we al- 


32 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


ways thought we were,” and the great sobs choked him. 

“Your folk!” cried the gentleman with a laugh, not 
a pleasant laugh, “but you do not know, as yet, who 
or what you are. You are Charles Gordon, Lord Rock 
Raven; son of James Gordon, Lord of Rock Raven, 
third Earl of Ravenhurst. Your mother is Lady 
Margaret of Douglas, daughter of Sir Wilfrid Douglas 
of the line of old Sir Archibald ‘Bell-the-Cat.’ There 
are few in Scotland that can boast such blood as yours. 
And you are weeping for your folk! The folk of the 
heir of Ravenhurst ! y 1 He laughed again. ‘ 1 John Shan¬ 
non, lord of a log cabin and a pigsty, in size an ox, in 
brain a pipkin, his most noble dame with a face as 
wrinkled and brown as the apple she baked last Candle¬ 
mas, a dozen—nay, was it fourteen—red-headed brats, 
and these are the folk of the scion of Ravenhurst!” 

Sir Roger might have seen the red light in those deep 
blue Douglas eyes. But he was not looking. John and 
Mary Shannon had taught the lad to respect his elders, 
and Gordon held his temper. He said not one of the 
hot things burning on his tongue; but answered with a 
boyish dignity which made Sir Roger marvel. 

“They have always been kind to me, my lord; and 
poor or not, they are my folk.” 

Anger had dried the lad’s tears. Sir Roger never saw 
him cry again. He did not speak of the Shannons any 
more. His home folk were too sacred in his eyes to be 
the jest of such a man as Roger of Ravenhurst. The 
gentleman knew from that day forward that a bar was 
between him and his nephew, a bar he never could cross, 
but he was not wise enough to know why. 


CHAPTER NUMBER THREE 
WHEN MEN PLAY MARBLES 





Chapter III 

WHEN MEN PLAY MARBLES 



HE good ship Anne of Glasgow 
sped, all sails drawing aloft and 
alow. The wind whistled jig tunes 
in the cordage and set the tackle 
blocks clapping in mimic applause. 
This was a good sound to the ears 
of Brown-head, for it sang to him of the Maryland 
woods; though now he stood by the stern rail, looking 
back following the ripples of the wake into the zigzag 
world of wave tips, and on to the west, till the gray 
disk of the ocean met the grim vault of the sky. He 
felt dumbly conscious of his own exceeding smallness 
in the world of waters and decidedly more small in the 
strange coming world of men of which Sir Roger 
preached endlessly. During such sermons the boy 
listened as little as possible, and the moment they were 
over, set himself to forget; yet one thing was bitterly 
clear—Brown-head was no longer George of the gay 
Maryland woods; but, “My Lord of Gordon.’’ He beat 
his silken knee against the rail and growled. 

“Ho! Your lordship; the face you wear holds storm 
enough to sink the Anne of Glasgow!” 

Gordon turned, half-pleased at the interruption, for 
he knew the voice. It was the man whom Sir Roger 
called Godfrey. Brown-head almost liked him—at least 
he was a pleasant fellow with whom to waste an hour. 

“What has raised the present glum wind?” Godfrey 
ran on. 


35 



36 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


‘ ‘ Augh! ’’ fumed the Gordon, * 1 Sir Roger has had me 
these two hours walking around the cabin on my toes 
like a top-silly maid at a fair. Every once in half a 
crack I had to see how near I could bring my head to 
my heels. Then he gets mad as seven wasps’ nests be¬ 
cause I landed on my head instead—” 

“Of making a court bow. But in good truth your 
young lordship is learning with astonishing rapidity 
to—” 

“Make a penny popinjay of myself.” Gordon thrust 
his hand into his belt wallet and brought out four peb¬ 
bles, roughly rounded by many hammerings, a pioneer 
boy’s marbles. He held one up. “I am sorry for these 
things now. Never knew before how a marble must feel 
—knocked hither and yon in the other fellow’s game!” 

“So!” whistled Godfrey, fixing his keen eyes on the 
boy’s face. 

“Yes, so!” stormed the Gordon. “My precious and 
most loving uncle comes overseas to get me. Why? 
Oh, because he so loves me! Fee-fi fiddle-string peg! 
He needs me for something. For what ? I don’t know; 
but this much has been knocked through my head: I’m 
the marble; he’s the shooter ; and it’s his game! ’ ’ 

“So!” whistled Godfrey again and smiled, paused, 
then laughed outright. “Well, for a ten years’ lad, you 
are rather more than somewhat shrewd, my little laird 
o ’ Gordon! ’ ’ 

“Bah! Beeswax! Even a mud-sucker gets the point 
as well as a trout—after the hook’s in him!” 

Godfrey chuckled. “Your small lordship might get 
the point of this: To-day you are the heir, the marble; 
to-morrow you are earl, Sir Roger is the marble. Wait 
your turn.” 





FIRE-THE-BRAES 






WHEN MEN PLAY MARBLES 


37 


It was the boy’s time to whistle. Godfrey looked out 
over the sea a moment, then spoke again. 

“Your lordship, you have not yet awakened to the 
fact that you are Earl of Ravenhurst, though as yet a 
trifle too young to take charge of affairs. An earl—a 
little king in your own domain! But let me show you a 
picture of what it means to be chief at old Rock Raven. 

“Now, there was Fire-the-Braes; he is not the first 
chief of your house—merely the first to write his name 
in history. There has been a chieftain’s stronghold on 
Rock Raven since—oh, since first God made the Scot and 
the devil set Scots a-fighting! A bit to the south of 
Ben Ender Mountain, a promontory of black and rag¬ 
ged rock is thrust a good ten bow-shots into the frith. 
The sea beats itself to a fury roaring about its wreck- 
strewn base. This rock from its shape, or from the ill- 
omened birds which nested there, or because of the fierce 
marauders who made of it a stronghold, has been called 
since the beginning, Rock Raven. Now, Fire-the-Braes 
was a bold and bloody man. He carried a long two- 
handed claymore the like of which no other man ever 
bore. Your lordship shall see it one of these days. From 
his wild and lonely tower on Rock Raven he sallied out 
for daring raids to the Russell lands, driving home 
cattle, plundering, burning villages and harvest fields. 
It was for this he was dubbed Fire-the-Braes—a name of 
terror from the Isles to the English border—” 

“An out-and-out villain and robber!” cried the boy. 
“As for Sir Roger—little of evil I’d put past him. How 
many more sweet relatives have I ? ” 

“Softly, softly, my fair young sir,” teased Godfrey. 
“If any knight had named Fire-the-Braes a common 
robber, swords had not slept in scabbards. The chief 




38 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


was but a bold blade in the rough game of war. Russell 
had stolen lands from Gordons, and Gordons harried 
Russell farms in—” 

“Sir Roger has said that name. I had thought Rus¬ 
sell to be, well not an enemy, but yet—is that old game 
still on?” 

‘ ‘ Feuds never die, ’ ’ answered Godfrey a bit evasively. 

‘ ‘ Boys throw down marbles and play ‘ grabs ’; men play 
‘grabs’ also—” 

“But—” 

“Your lordship has a keen sense of honor—most posi¬ 
tive proof of your noble blood. Fire-the-Braes lived cen¬ 
turies ago when even kings were rather crude. In fact, 
your house rose from a mere petty chieftain’s strong¬ 
hold to a knight’s castle by a rough jest about a king 
and a pair of deer’s horns. This dare-danger, night- 
prowling, blood-covered Fire-the-Braes once sprang out 
from the bracken and, single-handed, fought with a 
mighty antlered buck, and slew him with his claymore 
—this under the very eyes of the king who’d sworn to 
hang him; but instead, being pleased by the wild High¬ 
lander’s jest, the king made Fire-the-Braes his friend, 
an armored knight, and warden to keep other men in 
order. 

“Yet, if your lordship wish a knight of honor as un¬ 
sullied as the heaven-born snow—such as is that of our 
young lord—let me tell you of Lang-Sword. He was 
your great-great-grandfather, the man who raised Raven- 
hurst to an earldom. 

“It was in that old time,” began Godfrey, “when 
monarchs crimsoned their own swords and bore the scars 
of their own battle wounds. James Stuart, King of Scot¬ 
land, stood on a jutting rock above the frith. The sea 


WHEN MEN PLAY MARBLES 


39 


is no respecter of persons; the veering wind that whip¬ 
ped the snrf, sent its mist to sting the royal face. But 
a storm of another nature thundered in the voice of 
James as he eyed a seaman groveling at his feet. 

“ ‘Is this the varlet that refused to obey our order?’ 

“ ‘Sire,’ wailed the wretch, ‘I canna put my boat 
across the frith. The storm wrack’s cornin’ fast. The 
sail is tom. The hull’s aleak.’ 

“ ‘And your craven heart would sink a galley! My 
Lord of Arran, bid some churl to run his spear through 
this scoundrel who calls himself a Scottish seaman.’ 

“Force a jackal against a wall and he will fight a lion. 
Goaded by despair, the man retorted: 

“ ‘ If ye git the best o ’ an enemy, what matters it that 
starvin’ wife and child weep o’er a dead father?’ 

‘ ‘ Indignation seized the surrounding knights. A hun¬ 
dred swords were drawn; but James V was a man of 
moods as changeable as the powers that rule the sea. 
Instead of added wrath, pity pierced the fury of his 
eyes. 

“ ‘So,’ he said, ‘and is it love of wife and child that 
makes a coward of a man?’ He paused, and grief 
softened that lean, strong-passioned Stuart face. The 
royal home was yet in mourning for two bonny princes 
—sons, long hoped, long waited for, that died as fast 
as wee lips learned to lisp their father’s name. It was 
the man in James and not the king that spoke: 

“ ‘And have you, then, a son?’ 

“ ‘Aye, sire.’ Hope was bom of the kind note in the 
monarch’s voice. ‘Three sons, and one runs halfway 
doon the hill to meet me as I come bearin’ my nets at 
night, and one clings to the skirts of my gude wife, and 
one is wee bit yet and sleeps upon her breast.’ 


40 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“King James turned short about and looked over the 
sea. A moment so he stood and then he said: 

“ ‘Go to your home, good man. Tell them their mute 
cry has saved you from a coward’s grave, and—’ the 
royal voice sank low, ‘bid the wee ones pray that God 
may send the king a son.’ 

“Again the face of James grew stern. He gazed 
across the waters to the shore beyond. The frith was 
narrow at this point; for, from the opposing shore, the 
crags and cliffs of Ben Ender thrust themselves a good 
mile into the sea. Narrow the strait might he, but calm 
it seldom was; and now the wind puffed sharply, veer¬ 
ing from north to east, and the scudding cloud-wrack 
covered half the sky. On the shore across the frith a 
group of men waved torches. It was Argyll signaling 
for orders, and there was none that dared to put the 
leaking boat across the strait. A clank of armor broke 
the suspense, and a young knight dropped on his knees 
before the king. 

“ ‘May it please you, sire/ said a noble at the king’s 
right hand, ‘Sir Malcolm Gordon craves audience. The 
youth is of the blood of bold Gordon Fire-the-Braes, as 
brave as he and as gallantly desirous of serving your 
majesty. He is dubbed Lang-Sword, and is the laird of 
yon little tower that perches there across the way like 
a raven upon a rock.’ 

“James looked at the young man and smiled. 

“ ‘And what would the Gordon ask of us?’ 

“ ‘Sire,’ the face of Lang-Sword glowed with loyalty 
and daring, ‘the word “I can not” is not said in the 
house of Gordon. Let the honor of bearing the mes¬ 
sage be mine. I shall swim the frith, my liege.’ 


WHEN MEN PLAY MARBLES 


41 


“ ‘Swim!’ cried the king, doubting his ears. ‘Swim! 
—where a boat does not dare! ’ 

“ ‘Sire, I did it a year ago for pure sport.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ But not in the face of a coming storm! ’ 

“ ‘Nor did I swim beneath a king’s eye, nor at his 
word. Such glory would put strength in the limbs of 
a dastard.’ 

“ ‘But, hark, noble Gordon, even now the surf booms 
along the rocks of Ben Ender!’ 

“ ‘Sire, I know where the sandy shallows lie; and, at 
worst, I can die but once for you, my liege, and for 
Scotland! ’ 

‘ ‘ No kings ever played dice with the hearts and brains 
and souls of men as did the Stuart line; and now James 
smiled. Well was his pride pleased by this youth’s devo¬ 
tion—almost adoration; and, when he spoke, scarcely 
could praise have been couched more cunningly. 

“ ‘My lord of Gordon, your loyalty deserves our con¬ 
fidence. You shall know what message it is that you 
bear and why.’ The king paused, and those who stood 
about the sovereign stepped off perhaps a dozen paces. 
Then James resumed: ‘Russell has proved himself a 
thrice compounded villain and traitor. These five years 
he has been pensioned talebearer ’twixt Macleod, and 
the Lord of the Isles, and my cursed stepfather.* His 
castle is a very nest for the hatching of border plots, 
raids, and burnings. Bid Argyll march on Russell. Raise 
your own clan and assist. Success attend your valor, 
noble Gordon; for, if you win the day, we pledge that 
you shall be belted earl.’ 

*Angus Douglas—notorious traitor paid by Henry VIII to foment 
rebellion in Scotland and to stir up enmity along the border. He was 
the second husband of Margaret Tudor, sister of Henry VIII and 
mother of James V. 




42 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Lang-Sword kissed the royal hand, and rising strode 
swiftly down to the beach. Unbuckling his heavy armor, 
he cast it on the sand. Then, ready for the plunge, he 
stepped out on a rock. There he paused and dropped 
on his knee; and with him those beside the waves and 
James of Scotland with his lords on the cliff. For it 
was still the age of the old Faith, when no man put his 
life in jeopardy without calling God’s fair Mother to 
his aid. 

‘ ‘ The Lang-Sword’s prayer was brief: ‘ St. Mary, grant 
me long wind and strong blood. If I set foot on yonder 
shore, I vow a silver shrine to deck thy chapel in the 
wood. ’ 

“King James answered, ‘Amen!’ Then Lang-Sword 
stood, hands pointed for the dive, watching for the out¬ 
going of a wave—the tallest knight in the Highlands, 
lean, with knotty muscles which rose and fell like those 
that move under a tiger’s hide. A seagull flew across 
the face of the racing wrack and screamed the wild de¬ 
fiance of the storm. 

“ ‘God speed!’ called the voices from the shore. 

“ ‘St. Mary for King James!’ the Lang-Sword cried 
and plunged into the sea. Like a shaft of white light 
the body cleft air and water, and was gone. A wave 
came trembling in, growling, shaking a fleecy mane. The 
head of the swimmer rose. A crest reared above him— 
broke, crashing over him, carrying him back a spear’s 
length. He sank. Those on the cliff and those on the 
shore leaned gasping. He rose. The long white line 
of foam was between the swimmer and the shore. 

“ ‘Ho, Scot! well swum!’ called James. ‘By Mary’s 
virgin soul, I swear to deck that shrine with blood-red 
rubies! ’ 



WHEN MEN PLAY MARBLES 


43 


4 ‘The thunder muttered along Ben Ender. A dozen 
lightnings played on the cloud like lancers tilting before 
a battle. The swimmer had gained three bow shots space 
against the sea. His head was a dodging speck and the 
king dared not rest his eyes, lest he lose sight of it. The 
storm broke, rain swirling to the mad onslaught of the 
wind. The frith rose and sank in white roaring heights 
and bellowing caverns. The lightning shot its jagged 
bolts from sky to ocean—and the swimmer ?—the tempest 
had swallowed him. 

“James Stuart strode the cliff. Sometimes he prayed 
aloud, and sometimes cursed himself or any that dared 
venture within earshot of the royal wrath. An hour 
passed. The storm drew back among the hills, ravage- 
glutted, exhausted, muttering. 

“ ‘This day was lost the noblest knight that ever 
risked life for Scotland’s king,’ so said James Stuart, 
his face gloomy as the sullen frith below. But Arran, 
peering through the mist, gave a sudden pluck at the 
royal sleeve. ‘Ho, my liege, a light on Ben Ender! 
The Argyll signals!—two to right, three to left. They 
have the message! Holy God!—then Lang-Sword has 
crossed the frith!’ ” 

Godfrey paused, for the little Gordon stood with his 
right hand clenched as if it held a sword. He drew 
his breath through parted lips and his eyes were like a 
war eagle’s. 

“Aye,” cried Godfrey, “your young lordship is a 
fine keen splinter of old Lang-Sword’s steel!” 

But the boy was not pleased with the compliment or 
with anything that delayed the tale, for he broke in, 
“And Lang-Sword raised the clan, joined Argyll, and 
then?” 


44 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Like a good knight and true set out after Russell, 
chased him well up into the morasses beyond Ben Ender. 
The lowlander fled north toward the Laird o’ the Isles. 
Lang-Sword harried the Russell lands and followed. 
With Argyll he crept upon Russell in the wilds beyond 
Straithbogie and caught him in act of treason. He was 
pledging to lure King James to his castle and let the 
Isle-man capture the royal person. All this Bluff Hal 
of England was paying for. As your lordship knows, 
English kings have ever tried to put Scotland in their 
hunting hag. Russell was hung, drawn, and quartered 
as a traitor should be; while the Gordon was given all 
Russell’s forfeited lands. Lang-Sword was made an 
earl, and became a trusted counselor of good King James. 
In truth, the plunge of Lang-Sword into the frith was a 
leap into the high-seas of royal favor. 

“Good!” cried the little Gordon. 

“What?” mocked Godfrey, “that the petty chieftain’s 
stronghold on Rock Raven became Castle Ravenhurst 
and its lean young lord a belted earl ? ’ ’ 

“Well, a king’s supposed to keep his word, isn’t he?” 

“Surely! But was it good that Lang-Sword harried 
Russell’s lands and brought their lord to death?” 

“Well, Russell was a traitor, wasn’t he? What would 
you have had Lang-Sword do?” 

“As he did! It was your young lordship who, ten 
jiffies since, was for having Fire-the-Braes condemned 
as a common robber because he harried these same Rus¬ 
sell lands!” 

“Why didn’t you tell me this side first?” The boy 
paused, a light flashed up in his eyes. “Ho!’ he cried 
with sudden heat, “I have it now. Sir Roger talks of 
a friendship with Russell, and he stands plump for the 


WHEN MEN PLAY MARBLES 


45 


English king. Oh, I knew there were hunched shots in 
Roger’s game! He must be playing traitor to Scotland 
Lang-Sword was for—” 

“James V, lawful king of Scotland; Sir Roger for 
Charles I, of the line of good King James, and lawful 
lord of Scotland. Do not forget, a Stuart sits on the 
English throne.* Have a care of hot words, my little 
lord. Gordon chiefs there are that were the bosom 
friends of kings; and Gordon chiefs there are that have 
rotted in kings’ dungeons or walked the road to red 
death. ’ ’ 

“ So! ” whispered the little Gordon slowly and turned 
away as if puzzling over his own thoughts. 

Godfrey smiled. By the light in his eye, he might 
have been playing at marbles also. He seemed well 
pleased with his part in the game. 


♦Charles I, son of James Stuart (VI of Scotland, I of England), 
grandson of Mary, Queen of Scots, great-grandson of James V. 
James VI or I was taken from his mother in infancy and reared 
with English sympathies. Though the son of one who suffered for 
the Catholic faith, he was a most bitter persecutor of Catholics. 





i 



CHAPTER NUMBER FOUR 
CASTLE RAVENHURST 











Chapter IV 


CASTLE RAVENHURST 


T WAS harvest time before the long 
journey on sea and land ended. 
They had changed horses at the last 
inn, and the carriage rattled mer¬ 
rily along the Highland road. The 
tired boy had watched the hay¬ 
makers, field after field, until he had fallen asleep. Sir 
Roger sat scowling, tapping his boot with his scabbard. 
Godfrey, who seemed something more than a servant, sat 
watching him. 

“Three long years of labor, and the end a failure,” 
growled the nobleman. 

“Failure! Is it a lord of the house of Gordon who 
cries ‘failure’ when the first knot comes? We have the 
heir, and old Ravenhurst will yet be the greatest earl¬ 
dom in Scotland.” 

“The heir, we have him, indeed; but what an heir. 
We would do better without him. Bred on the farm, 
' he has the manners of a clown. Still, he is learning. 
At least he can bow without falling down. Time and 
training will remedy his lack of culture. It is the papist 
faith in him which ruins all.” 

“The faith of a ten-year-old boy ruins all! Oh, Sir 
Roger, is this the spirit of a Gordon ? ’ ’ 

“You see for yourself his stubbornness.” 

“Stubbornness! That is the best point in the lad. 



49 




50 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Do you think a weakling could ever win back the lands 
of Ravenhurst? Our work is to turn his strong will 
from his faith to what we wish.” 

“Very easily said, my good Godfrey; but it can not 
be done. What else have I striven to do since the day 
I found him? Right at this moment that red-bearded 
Shannon has more influence with him than I.” 

“Sir Roger, it is a hard matter to skin a deer with 
the handle of a knife; the blade does such work much 
better. ’ ’ 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“I mean what I have said from the first: don’t try 
to drive the boy; lead him. ’ ’ 

‘ * Lead him! A ship’s cable would not draw that boy 
one step.” 

“My lord, I said lead; I did not say draw.” 

“No more of your riddles, my good Godfrey, speak 
plainly. ’’ 

“Sir Roger, fire and sword could not turn that boy 
from his faith now, while he loves it; but let him alone, 
and he will forget both Shannon and his teaching. Tell 
him of Fire-the-Braes and Lang-Sword till he longs to 
be as great an earl as they; nay, even the greatest of 
them all. Then, in later years, when it is a choice 
between lands, castles, and the king’s favor, or the 
Catholic faith and poverty there may be a struggle; but 
the faith will go to the wall.” 

“Perhaps, and perhaps he will be a Huntly or an 
Errol and die in exile for leading some fool’s chase of 
a rebellion.” 

“True, but he is only a child; a child’s faith dies 
easily if it is not nourished. The one I fear is his 


CASTLE RAVENHURST 


51 


mother. If you will follow my advice, he will never see 
her, never even know that she lives.’’ 

“I need the mother’s evidence that he is the heir. 
Lady Margaret will not dare to cross my will; she 
knows the penalty.” Sir Roger’s face grew very ugly. 

‘‘ The Lady Margaret will not dare ? Oh, have a care! 
Remember, that frail and gentle woman is a Douglas. 
Who ever yet has bent the will of a Douglas? Let her 
once speak to him, let her but once tell him of the old 
earl, or of that fool—Gordon’s father. Oh, have a care! 
It will be an easy task to lead the boy; but the boy with 
his mother at his back, aye, that’s another tale. She will 
have more influence with him than a dozen Shannons.” 

‘ ‘ Douglas or no, my lady will fare ill if she cross wills 
with me. There is such a thing as the will of a Gordon 
as well as that of a Douglas. I am no weakling to bend 
to a woman. Let her once dare open her lips about 
those ‘martyrs’ she may call them—fools they were! 
Let her once dare! I will execute the law to the fullest 
extent! Aye! Trust me for it! I will execute the very 
letter of the law!” 

The sleeping boy stirred. Sir Roger’s voice grew sud¬ 
denly pleasant. “Ah, little nephew, you are sleeping 
at a strange time. We shall see the castle in a few 
moments. ’ ’ 

“Yonder is the glen where Gordon Fire-the-Braes 
killed the great deer.” Godfrey pointed to a glen lead¬ 
ing into the heart of the mountain. 

“Did you not tell me that the antlers are still in the 
castle?” The boy was wide awake now. 

“They are in the old earl’s room above the fireplace. 
You may see them to-night if you wish. Old Fire-the- 


52 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Braes was a great man in his day. It was he who raised 
Ravenhurst. ’ ’ 

Sir Roger looked at the eagle light in the boy’s eyes 
and smiled at Godfrey. “Do yon see that point of rocks 
jutting out from Ben Ender into the frith? In the lea 
of that is the spot where Gordon-o’-the-Lang-Sword 
landed when he swam the frith from shore to shore and 
carried the message for the king.” 

The little Gordon leaned forward eagerly. “Was 
there ever a greater earl than the Gordon-o’-the-Lang- 
Sword? Godfrey has told me so many wonderful deeds 
that he did.” 

“Indeed, he was the proudest of them all. The earl¬ 
dom reached its greatest extent in his days; but he died 
at Solway Moss, fighting for King James. There 
have been evil days since then. The good king, as 
he lay dying after the battle, said that they would 
come. A herald brought him the tidings that a 
daughter had just been born to him. ‘Alack-a-day for 
Scotland, ’ moaned he. ‘ The Stuarts came in with a lass 
and no doubt they will go out with one.’ Mary, Queen 
of us poor Scots, did the best she could, perhaps; but 
the days have been evil for the house of Gordon since 
Solway Moss.” 

Sir Roger paused a moment to look at Godfrey, for 
the boy’s face was all aglow. Then he continued: 

“Land after land was taken from us till, when I 
became regent, we had little more than the bare rock on 
which the castle stands. I have gained a good portion 
for you, and you must do the rest. I will do all that 
can be done until you are a man; but you must be the 


CASTLE RAVENHURST 


53 


earl who raises Ravenhurst even higher than she was 
before she fell.' * 

‘ ‘ I will try, my lord . 1 ’ The Gordon spoke very slowly. 
His square little jaw grew a bit more square. His eyes 
shone with a wild Douglas fire. Godfrey looked at Sir 
Roger and smiled. 

The road made a short turn round a cliff. In the 
depths below, the water foamed among the rocks. Far 
off down the frith, five great gray towers stood out in 
the sunset. The slant rays sifting down among them 
touched here and there a battlement with gold and deep¬ 
ened the purple shadows. From the seaward tower came 
a puff of white smoke, and then a roar. Sir Roger rose 
in the carriage, lifting his plumed hat. Over the water, 
the sound of a great bell rolled. The rocks caught the 
echo, and many an elfin note made answer from crag 
and cliff and forest, far up even to the summit of old 
Ben Ender. 

“What is all this noise about?” whispered the lad. 
* ‘ Tell me, Godfrey, or I shall make a blunder . 1 ’ 

“Will you never learn that you are the scion of the 
house of Gordon? The cannon and the bells of old 
Ravenhurst are welcoming you, my lord. ’’ 

The road turned in among the hills again. The castle 
was out of sight. 

“Lowlanders have taken our lands and made my peo¬ 
ple slaves. You told me so long ago.’’ The little Gordon 
spoke very slowly. 

“But an earl as great as Lang-Sword could win it all 
back again. You must be that earl.” 

“I will do my best, uncle.” 

“There is just one thing standing in the way.” God- 


54 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


frey shook his head and frowned sharply. His lips said, 
“Not now! Not yet!” But they made no sound. Sir 
Roger continued in spite of the warning; he was as cer¬ 
tain of victory now as he had been of failure. “One 
thing stands in the way. This one thing will ruin all if 
you have not the sense to give it up. You can not he a 
papist and win back to Ravenhurst her rightful place 
in Scotland. The king is for the new faith and will 
put down with fire and sword any noble who stands for 
the old.” 

“My lord,” said the boy, looking straight into his 
uncle’s eyes, “the earldom costs too much. ‘There is 
nothing worth the buying if the price be the fire of hell 
forever more!’ Daddy Shannon said so.” 

A chorus of shouts drowned Sir Roger’s answer. “The 
Gordon! The Gordon! Hail to the little chief! Here’s 
the carriage, lads; Aye! It’s Sir James’ son and no 
mistake!” It was a group of herdsmen watching from 
a cliff. 

Another turn among the crags and he could see the 
road winding up to the castle, and the crowds of peas¬ 
ants, throng after throng, along the wayside. 

“The Gordon! The Gordon! Aye, in very truth 
the earl’s own son. God’s blessing on his young head! 
The Gordon! The Gordon!” Right and left the lad 
threw silver bawbees out among them as he passed on 
the long way up to the castle. 

The great, gray drawbridge came clanging down across 
the moat. A double file of soldiers marched out, cheer¬ 
ing as only soldiers can. “The Gordon! The Gordon! 
Welcome, little chief!” They crossed their blades and 
the lad walked on beneath a shining arch of steel. 


CASTLE RAVENHURST 


55 


Straight across the courtyard, between the files, stepped 
the sturdy little figure. The castle doors swung open. 
Long lines of servants in the great hall bowed and 
cheered as he passed along the polished floor. 

The massive, carven doors of the drawing-room slid 
hack noiselessly. Someone in green and gold called, 
“Sir Charles Gordon, Lord Rock Raven—Sir Roger of 
Gordon. ’ ’ The boy looked about him in wide-eyed won¬ 
der. Never had he dreamed of such a place. Candles— 
it seemed to the boy there were a thousand—made the 
room as light as day. Pictures, great ones from floor to 
ceiling; statues, massive furniture, and rich tapestry; 
ladies in crimson and ladies in gold, ladies in purple 
and ladies in blue; gentlemen dressed like peacocks, with 
gold lace and jeweled shoe-buckles; here a plaided chief, 
and there an English noble; and from each one came 
the old, old cheer that had greeted the earls of Raven- 
hurst these hundreds of years: “The Gordon! The 
Gordon! Welcome, my lord; thrice welcome!” 

Among them all the puzzled child saw one kind face. 
It was a little woman with snow-white hair, a face 
worn and thin, as if from much suffering, two dark blue 
eyes that looked straight into his own. He turned to her 
as to a friend. 

“Aren’t you somebody that belongs to me?” he whis¬ 
pered. 

The woman took his face in her frail hands. She 
looked at him long and lovingly. “I am your mother, 
little Gordon, and you are welcome home.” 

1 ‘ Ah! Lady Margaret, you must not keep his little 
lordship all for yourself. Let us kiss him, too,” cried 
gay voices. 



56 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Sir Roger frowned. He had always feared that the 
boy would show his farm rearing by his clumsiness, and 
now at this all-important first appearance, there he stood 
—timid, stammering, clinging to his mother’s hands. 
Not one of those graceful bows, not one of those neatly 
turned speeches! Oh, how carefully he had trained him 
just what to do and say! The red flush brought out the 
tan and freckles, and made him look so common. Sir 
Roger remarked nervously, “His lordship is browned by 
the voyage.” 

“Since when has a weathered face been a disgrace at 
Ravenhurst?” queried Lady Margaret gently. “In 
truth, there never was a carpet-knight among the lairds, 
from old Gordon Fire-the-Braes to your most noble 
brother. ’ ’ 

The lad saw that his mother’s words had angered his 
uncle. He saw, too, with the quick insight that children 
have, that among all these great folk his mother had no 
friend. He put one arm about her, as if to guard her, 
and looked straight at them all. The bashfulness was 
gone; and there was in the boy’s figure a certain dignity 
that marked the son of many a warlike earl. 

“How much he resembles his father,” said one. 

“Aye, too much like the earl, I fear. God grant him 
a better end. ’ ’ 

“But then,” remarked a noble who seemed of some 
importance, at least in his own eyes, “—but then he 
has you, Sir Roger. You will do your duty. We need 
have no fear of the mother’s proving unwise, while the 
uncle is at hand. ’ ’ 

“I will indeed do my duty, my lord of Russell, both 
by the heir and by Ravenhurst,” Sir Roger answered 
somewhat stiffly. “Lady Gordon will wisely remember 



CASTLE RAVENHURST 


57 


that there are laws concerning the imparting of knowl¬ 
edge on certain dangerous subjects to the youth of our 
land. ’ ’ 

The dark eyes of Lady Margaret looked straight into 
Sir Roger’s. “I thank your lordship for your kindness. 
I am well aware of the laws of which you speak, and 
know how to conform myself to them.” Her voice was 
sweet and low, but there was a ringing firmness in her 
tone, a light in the depths of her eyes. She seemed a 
mother eagle guarding her young. 



I 








CHAPTER NUMBER FIVE 
BY THE OLD FIREPLACE 











Chapter V 

BY THE OLD FIREPLACE 


UN HIS is the old earl’s room. It will 
V/ be yours now,” said nurse Benson, 

\ / swinging open a great carved door. 

/ ‘'May you have a good night’s rest, 
my lord. ’ ’ The aged serving-woman 
bowed and closed the door, leaving 
Gordon alone in a large room. 

“Now, this makes two people here that I like. There’s 
my mother and there’s Benson. Nurse said she cared 
for my father when he was a ‘wee bit bairnie.’ That’s 
why she gave me pigeon pie. He always wanted pigeon 
pie. Oh, what a beautiful fireplace!” 

Indeed, it was a fine piece of old French carving. 
Two yeomen standing on the hearth held the mantel on 
their spears. The shelf was bare, covered only with 
white linen. At each end of it, two knights stood cross¬ 
ing swords above a picture. High up, almost lost in the 
dusk near the ceiling, a great pair of antlers hung. 
“Those deer horns must be old Fire-the-Braes’. Uncle 
said they were in here. I wonder if that is his picture, 
too.” The boy held up the candle to examine it. The 
painting represented an old warrior, white-haired, but 
large and strong of limb, a kind old face that smiled at 
one, but thin, and the jaws square to ugliness. “It can 
not be Fire-the-Braes. He lived so long ago. Perhaps 
it is the Gordon-o’-the-Lang-Sword; but where in the 
world did they get that picture of me?” For a lad 



61 




The Antlers of Fire-the-Braes 












BY THE OLD FIREPLACE 


63 


stood by the warrior’s knee, who smiled from the canvas 
with a face Gordon had seen too often in the fishing 
pool not to recognize. 

Then other memories came. He saw another fireplace, 
not so beautiful as this, but wide and low and very com¬ 
fortable. Mary Shannon, at one end of the hearth, 
spinning with swift, sure fingers; Daddy, at the other 
end, with his pipe in the corner of his mouth, the zip- 
zip-zurr of his whetstone on the axe; while Joel and the 
twins rolled over one another on the cabin floor. The 
boy leaned against the fireplace and cried, as he had not 
done since he saw the last bit of smoke from the Shan¬ 
non cabin slipping behind the trees. 

There was a gentle touch on his arm. “We never 
place anything on this mantel, my son,” and a white 
hand raised the candlestick. ‘ ‘ Are you lonesome in this 
grand, old house?” 

“I was thinking of Joel and the folks at home. I 
couldn’t even say good-bye.” 

Lady Margaret sat down in a wide armchair and 
drew the boy down beside her. “Who is this Joel, 
little son?” 

“Joel, he’s my twin. I mean, you know, we always 
thought we were. I didn’t bid him good-bye.” Then 
with a little wonder in his voice, “But you are not 
angry! Uncle Roger was mad at me, because I cried 
for my folks. He thinks being poor is a disgrace.” 

“Gordon,” said his mother earnestly, “I should, in¬ 
deed, be grieved if you had no love in your heart for 
that woman who, in spite of her poverty, took a home¬ 
less babe to her heart; and was so true a mother, that 
you never dreamed you were not her son; but you must 


64 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


do more than cry for them. Some day, if God gives you 
your rights, you must do great things for them; but all 
that we can do now is to write and let them know of 
your safe arrival. We shall do so as soon as I hear of 
a ship bound for Maryland.” 

‘‘Oh, that would please them. Daddy couldn’t read 
it; but they’ll wait till Friar Cornwall comes.” 

“Friar Cornwall!” Lady Margaret’s face lost all its 
gentleness. Her eyes were as stem as the old Douglas 
steel. 

Poor little lad! Here was the old trouble once more. 
Oh, why did every one hate the Faith he had been 
taught to love ? But Mary Shannon’s teaching was deep 
in the heart of the boy. His little hand gripped the arm 
of the chair till the knuckles stood out hard and white; 
yet he looked straight into those stern eyes and an¬ 
swered : 

“The Shannons are Catholics, mother, and I am a 
Catholic, too.” 

His mother was not looking at him now. Her eyes 
were fixed on the old fireplace with a look of deepest 
joy. “Holy Mother of God,” she was saying, “I thank 
thee that thou hast kept thy trust.” 

“Mother, if you are a Catholic, too, what made you 
look at me like that?” 

“I wished to learn of what metal you are formed, 
my son. There is one weakling in the house of Gordon. 
Had you shown a spirit like Sir Roger’s, had your will 
bent, because you feared me, I would have disowned you, 
my son, though it broke my heart. The Earl of Raven- 
hurst must stand for God and our Lady, let the cost be 
what it may.” 


BY THE OLD FIREPLACE 


65 


A gleam, almost a smile, came into Lady Margaret’s 
eyes. “Now most noble Sir Paul Pry of Russell, now 
will the Countess of Ravenhurst conform herself to 
those laws of Scotland; aye, fit herself most snugly into 
this first opportunity. The good uncle is very busy talk¬ 
ing about himself and all he has done, or maybe not 
done, in the Colonies. The wise and cunning Godfrey 
also is busy. He must needs open the chest and show 
the wampum, the tomahawks, also that foul scalplock, 
and even a great bear skin; though I doubt somewhat 
the truth of Sir Roger’s tale of his great bravery in kill¬ 
ing the monster. ’ ’ 

41 Killing the bear! He is not claiming my pelt, is he ? 
He didn’t have a thing to do with it. I killed that bear 
myself. ’ ’ 

“You killed that beast? Did you more than help 
some hunter just a little?” 

“The old bear had us treed. She rammed her snout 
right up on the gun. I couldn’t have missed her if I 
had tried. I was mad, because he claimed my pelt; 
that’s all.” 

“My son, the future Earl of Ravenhurst, should 
make better use of the king’s English; but I came here 
to-night to speak of things more important than a bear’s 
pelt.” 

There was that in her voice which made the boy look 
up with swift constraint of every muscle. Lady Mar¬ 
garet smiled, for she saw the war spirit that pulsed in 
his frame; and she knew him to be worthy of her con¬ 
fidence though but a boy in hand and heart and brain. 

“I have much to tell you this night, my son,” she 
said, and her deep eyes seemed to read his soul. 4 4 Things 


66 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


of import—matters that could not be trusted to a coward. 
It was for this reason that I tried your mettle, boy; and 
your mother’s heart was glad to hear it ring back—true 
Gordon steel. Of the things I tell you this night, speak 
nothing. You are yet a child and do not know friend 
from foe. Whatever be your need, put no trust in God¬ 
frey Bertrandson.” 

The lad’s brow drew up in a puzzle. ‘ 1 1 thought you 
were going to say, not to trust Uncle Roger,” he 
blurted. 

Lady Margaret laughed, “Why should I warn where 
there is no danger? You have already taken the meas¬ 
ure of Sir Roger; but I warn you, trust nothing to God¬ 
frey Bertrandson.” 

Then suddenly after a pause, like an arrow shot from 
under a shield, the mother sent a question: 

“What do you know about your father?” 

The boy frowned a moment as if searching his mem¬ 
ory, “Not much, mother; I guess his name is all they 
told me.” 

She seemed relieved. “So, you shall learn of him 
from me, and that is well,” she said; and there was in 
her eyes a look deep, unfathomable, as if a mingling of 
joy and pain. “I was an orphan in this house,” she 
continued, “a child of Douglas blood, but penniless. 
James was Earl of Ravenhurst—not as it is to-day, but 
as it was in a time of which you will learn—a bleak 
winter time of poverty and pain; yet there are gifts 
that gold and fame can never buy; for God alone has 
the giving of them. God gave to James and me a love 
that was blessed before His throne in heaven. Here, 
standing before this fireplace, we were married. You 


BY THE OLD FIREPLACE 


67 


smile, my son. Some day you will know that this great 
room in the seaward tower is the room of memories to 
all of Gordon blood, and this fireplace is a sacred thing 
to all who know its history. James and I had waited 
long for our wedding day, because no priest had come 
this way in many years. He was no longer young, nor 
yet was I; but we would have gone single to our graves 
rather than be wedded by any other than a priest of 
God’s holy Church. God sent His minister to us, and 
the castle rang with mirth and song. Never was there a 
gayer wedding, nor was there one laugh less light because 
both bridal pair and merrymaking clan had nothing but 
oat cake and ale to feast upon. Poverty has its own joys, 
my son, and the fine food of the rich has often a bit¬ 
ter spicing. 

“Three years God gave joy to James and me; and 
then He sent the cross, my son. For it was ten years 
ago on this very night that the king’s dragoons came for 
your father. James was standing by my side as I lay 
on the couch yonder. He thought me to be dying. We 
could hear the heavy boots of the soldiers tramping in 
the hall below. ‘Courage, little comrade at arms!’ he 
whispered. ‘The battle lowers. The bugle of Christ 
calls “Forward!” Shall we falter in the charge? We 
follow a Leader crucified!’ 

“Then came the clanking of their armor as they 
climbed the stairs. James took you from my arms, wee 
bit of a new-born babe that you were, and carried you 
over to the fireplace. A little image of our Lady used 
to stand there. He laid you down before it and prayed, 
‘Holy Mother of God, Margaret is dying. I am going 
God knows where. See, there is no one to guard the 


68 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


faith of our child. Holy Mother, we leave him in your 
care.’ James brought you back to me. ‘Fear nothing 
Margaret, ’ he whispered. ‘ The blessed Mother never yet 
has failed those who trust in her.’ Then he kissed us 
both and went out, and the dragoons took him; but, my 
little son, I would that you could know the joy in my 
heart this night when I saw how faithfully our Lady 
has kept her trust. 0 little son, we shall cling to each 
other and trust the sweet Mother of God! ’ ’ 

“Where is my father now?” asked the boy, his 
bright eyes wide with wondering love. 

“God alone knows,” she answered. “I never learned 
what befell him. So many years have passed that I 
hope he is dead!” 

“Hope that he is dead!” 

“Yes, Gordon, I hope that my brave and noble James 
is dead; for if he be dead, he is with other martyred 
Gordons who stand before the great White Throne; but 
if he be living, he is in some foul dungeon, suffering 
hunger, thirst, the rack, I know not what. ’ ’ 

Margaret was not weeping. She had borne her pain 
too long for that; but the lad knew now why his mother’s 
hair was white, and in his childish way he strove to com¬ 
fort her. 

‘ ‘ Mother, ’ ’ the boy ventured, ‘ ‘ perhaps—you see Friar 
Cornwall was so wise, I guess all priests must be—I 
was thinking next time we go to Mass—why, maybe, the 
priest could help us find out about father.” 

Lady Margaret smiled. He was so eager to comfort 
her, so powerless. 

“My son, you have forgotten that we do not live in 
Mary’s Land beyond the sea. Child, I have been present 



BY THE OLD FIREPLACE 


69 


at holy Mass five times in my life. Even should the 
holy Sacrifice be offered near us, there would be small 
chance of our being there. Sir Roger watches like a 
hawk. I will tell you what I do. When on a Sunday 
I am longing to live in lands where Mass bells ring, I 
come in here and kneel beside the old fireplace. This is 
the sacred relic of the Gordon house. Many times in by¬ 
gone years the priests of God made of this mantel an 
altar. Many times within these walls the angels cov¬ 
ered their faces with their wings, saying, ‘ Holy! Holy! 
Holy! Lord God of Hosts!’ Once did wicked men 
spill here the Blood of God. That silver spot upon the 
hearth marks the place where the Precious Blood drops 
fell years and years ago. Therefore, to this holy room 
I come and kneel by the fireplace and pray awhile and 
kiss that little silver spot and beg the good Lord Christ 
to come to me in spirit since I can not receive Him in 
the holy Sacrament. You can do this, too; but we must 
not come together and we must not stay more than two 
or three minutes. If Sir Roger were to learn of it, even 
this small comfort would be denied us. We must be 
very wise, my son. ’ ’ 

“Uncle Roger is mean to you!” cried the boy with 
sudden anger. “But now that I am here, if he dares 
say a thing to you, I’ll—” 

“You will keep your temper and say nothing. That 
is what you will do when things go wrong. If you fly 
into a passion, you will do great harm and no good. 
Keep this little thought to be your comfort at such 
times. Nothing Roger says can wound me. Only those 
we love can cause us grief. Let me see you growing up, 
day by day, such a son as the child of such a father 


70 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


should be; then your mother will be a happy woman, 
come what may.” 

Gordon felt the strength of her will across his own 
and the love in his heart for her deepened into rever¬ 
ence. They were silent for a time, and when his mother 
spoke again, it was of other things. 

“You have not yet told me of those kind folks who 
gave you shelter in your childhood,” she said. “How 
was it that they found you?” There was something in 
her tone that made him wonder at her question. 

“I don’t know much about it,” he answered, and 
again he noted a look of relief in the depth of her eyes. 
“Daddy said that Friar Cornwall found me and brought 
me to them. They named me George because I called 
myself ‘Dordie,’ ” 

“Did you say anything else?” 

“Only to ask for ‘Dunkie Teewee,’ but they had no 
tea to give me.” 

“Did they tell Roger that?” Lady Margaret’s voice 
was swift and sharp. 

“No!” cried the child, startled at her tone. 

“Thank God,” she said, and smiled at the boy’s 
troubled face. ‘ ‘ It was not for tea you called but for your 
Uncle Stephen. Well, indeed, would Roger know the 
meaning of your wail for ‘Dunkie Teewee,’ and one more 
nail would be driven in my poor brother’s coffin.” 

The puzzled child stared at her. “You were lost a 
long time from Uncle Roger; but you were not lost at 
all from your mother, my son. After the dragoons took 
your father, I was ill for many months. A year later, 
they again thought me to be dying. Even faithful Ben¬ 
son thought my last hour had come; and she sent a 


BY THE OLD FIREPLACE 


71 


trusty messenger for my brother. Your Uncle Stephen 
is one of our brave hunted priests that neither prison 
nor the fear of death can drive from the Scottish mis¬ 
sion. He came at the risk of his life, and gave me the 
last rites of Holy Church, and took you with him, prom¬ 
ising to find a home for you where your faith would be 
guarded. He passed out with you hidden under his long 
gray cloak. A trusty clansman rowed him to a sea¬ 
going frigate. I had supposed that my brother meant 
to take you to France and place you with our kinsman, 
Cardinal Beaton; but Stephen is a saint, child, and 
saints do not reason as we worldly people do. He con¬ 
sidered your soul alone and placed you where he thought 
that pearl most safe. I was not pleased with his choice; 
but he said, ‘Where was the only Son of the King of 
kings placed—in a castle or a cot?’ I said no more, for 
Stephen is a saint. ,, 

“Why in the world didn’t uncle tell Daddy Shannon, 
instead of just setting me down by the roadside? That 
was a queer thing to do.” 

“Rather it was a wise thing to do. Had this kind 
farmer known whose child he took into his house, Sir 
Roger would have put him in prison for helping to kid¬ 
nap you. Neither did Stephen go to a strange land and 
set you down by a roadside and leave you to the hand of 
chance. He knew well the wisdom and charity of the 
good priest to whom he entrusted you. He waited till 
the old gray horse was almost at the spot before leaving 
you, and he remained in hiding a few weeks till he had 
learned what manner of man was the John Shannon in 
whose care you were. Then, my son, when Stephen and 
our trusty clansmen thought the time was ripe for your 


72 


THE OUTLAWS OP RAVENHURST 


return, we paid a seaman to give Sir Roger a clue that 
he might search for you and bring you back to us.” 

“But it is all so queer, mother. Now there is this 
picture of me you have over the fireplace. How did you 
get it? I never had a suit like that till Sir Roger gave 
me my Gordon plaid.” 

Lady Margaret laughed. “This is not your portrait. 
It is your father’s, and it was painted long ago. Now, 
do you know why it takes but a glance to let any clans¬ 
man know whose son you are?” 

“And the old warrior, is he Gordon-o’-the-Lang- 
Sword?” 

“Oh, no; that is your great-grandfather, Angus Gor¬ 
don, commonly called the ‘old earl.’ ” 

The boy was a bit disappointed. 

“I never heard of an Angus Gordon. I thought he 
looked brave enough to be Lang-Sword. Godfrey said 
he was the greatest earl of them all.” 

“No doubt Godfrey thinks so; but I shall tell you of 
both these heroes and you shall say which was the braver 
knight. It is not titles and lands and gold that make a 
man great. Listen, my son, to these tales and you shall 
learn who are the great men of your house, who have 
done hero’s deeds, and why this old fireplace is sacred 
to all of Gordon blood.” 

Lady Margaret smiled, and there was triumph in her 
glance, for in her son’s eyes was confidence. His 
mother’s heroes were to be his heroes. Then her look 
grew suddenly grave. 

“My child, I shall tell you many tales in time; yet, 
lest unknown need should catch you unprepared, I must 
give you one more word of warning. If you have need 


BY THE OLD FIREPLACE 


73 


of help in any hour of trouble, call on Benson; failing 
her, old Edwin the gate warden is true; but, child, be 
watchful—sometimes walls have ears—and do not speak 
unless your need is very great. Trust no one else within 
these walls. Should you be forced even to fly from the 
castle, you have loyal clansmen living in the fastnesses 
of Ben Ender’s glens. Their chief and the best of them 
all is Muckle John-o’-the-Cleuth. A secret passage opens 
from this old fireplace—the same way by which you fled 
when Friar Stephen carried you in his arms. It is not 
known to Sir Roger. There is a spring in the hand of 
the wooden soldier, on the right side of the mantel. 
Turn the sword twice to the right and press down; a 
panel on the left of the fireplace will slide back into the 
wall. This is the beginning of the passage. The end 
is in the woodland near Ben Ender. When once in the 
open, make your way to the frith and follow the shore 
to the glen—” 

“But, mother,” interrupted the hoy, a look of appre¬ 
hension darkening his eyes, “if we had to go away, you 
would be with me and you would know where the paths 
are. ’’ 

Lady Margaret did not answer. The white fingers 
clenched on the arm of the chair, but only for a moment. 
Well she knew what the penalty for this night’s talk 
might he. 

“It is not wise to face trouble till it comes,’’ she said, 
with strange quietness. “Be brave and silent, little 
son. We shall trust to God and our Lady, hoping that 
all may go well . 9 ’ 

She had given these instructions in a tense, clear, but 
exceedingly low tone, her lips scarcely moving; and with 
the last swift word her voice rose in a light and merry 



74 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


note and she began to sing an odd but sweet old ballad 
about a Douglas lost in battle for the love of the Heart 
o’ the Bruce. If there were any connection between 
this song and her last words, Gordon failed to compre¬ 
hend it; nor could this be the promised tale concerning 
Gordon heroes and the fireplace; yet something in her 
eye told the boy to ask no question. Half instinctively 
Gordon realized that there had been a sound in the outer 
hall a moment or so before, and he heard it again—a 
faint creaking as if a weight were against the door. 
But whatever may have been the cause, Lady Margaret 
made no further confidences, though she sang or spoke 
on gently, gaily telling merry tales of knights and 
gnomes, of Bruce and old time wars, till the weary eyes 
of the boy lost their shining, and with his head upon 
her knee the Gordon slept. 



CHAPTER NUMBER SIX 
MY FRIEND 

GODFREY BERTRANDSON 





I 


Chapter YI 

MY FRIEND GODFREY BERTRANDSON 


HERE was a ray of light teasing 
Gordon’s eyes. He turned sleepily 
toward the wall. “Mother must 
have put me in bed last night,” he 
thought. “I do not remember un¬ 
dressing myself at all. She was 
telling me things, wasn’t she? All about my father; he 
is in prison somewhere, or perhaps he is dead; and 
that hero greater than Lang-Sword; but she did not 
tell me anything about him or about the fireplace, and 
she cut off short and queer like things do in a dream. 
Yes, I remember it all now. I must have gone to sleep 
while she was speaking. My, how late! It’s broad 
daylight! ’ ’ 

Gordon turned the coverlet back, rolled over, stared 
a moment, began to rub his eyes, a puzzled look upon 
his face. 

“I am not in the same room. Yes, I am,” he puzzled. 
“The bed is the same, the windows, and the pictures; 
but the fireplace ! That is not the fireplace I saw last 
night! It can’t be the same room. Yes, it is! There 
is the chair where we sat. There are the antlers belong¬ 
ing to Fire-the-Braes. Last night they were right up 
there on top, but not on top of that fireplace. I am all 
turned round.” 

He sat still upon the edge of the bed. There was 
indeed a great carved mantel; a beautiful work of old- 



77 



78 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


time art reaching almost to the vaulted ceiling. There 
were four pillars, two above and two below the mantel; 
but the two which rested on the hearth, were not yeomen 
of the guard; and the two above were not knights. They 
were oaken trunks round which a grapevine twined. 
Here and there clusters peeped temptingly from among 
the carved leaves. A beautiful work of brush and chisel; 
but not the fireplace beside which he had been seated 
while his mother spoke of long ago. There was a paint¬ 
ing above the mantel, just beneath an arch of vines but 
not the one he had seen last night beneath the crossed 
swords. The same place, the same size and shape, but 
not the same picture. It was not an aged warrior and a 
lad; but a kilted chieftain of long, long ago, standing 
with one foot upon a fallen deer. Below, the gilded title 
shone in the sunlight: Sir David Gordon, Lord Rock 
Raven, First Laird of Ravenhurst, commonly called 4 ‘Old 
Fire-the-Braes. ’ ’ Lady Margaret had said the mantel 
was held sacred but many odd trifles lay upon it— 
French knickknacks and shells from beyond the sea. 
The blackened hearthstone showed no trace of that sil¬ 
ver spot. Nothing seemed the same. The door opened, 
framing Godfrey’s smiling face. 

“Well, my lord, are you awake at last? If you had 
slept a little longer, you might have slept the clock 
around once more.” 

“It is real late, isn’t it?” 

“No, my lord, it is still quite early; two o’clock by 
the sun-dial, sir.” 

“Two in the afternoon!” 

“Two, by the dial, my lord.” 

“Why didn’t Benson call me?” 


MY FRIEND GODFREY BERTRANDSON 79 


“Benson? Pray, who is Benson?” 

“Don’t yon know Benson? She is the kind old 
woman who gave me my supper. ’ ’ 

“ Oh! Yon mean Betsy. ’ ’ 

“No, I mean Benson!” 

“Your lordship might call her Ben’s daughter; 
though, if my memory play me no trick, her father’s 
name was Tam. I think she will not take kindly to the 
name of Ben’s son, but, call her what you may, don’t 
say she is a good old soul. Betsy is a blooming lass, 
turned sixteen last Candlemas.” 

“She is old; and her name is Benson! I know, be¬ 
cause she gave me my supper.” 

“Have you own will, my lord; but I would not take 
your word, nor even your oath, for anything which hap¬ 
pened last night. Aye, but you were one right royal 
sleepy head! The guests were scarcely seated, when 
down went your head on your mother’s silken knee; and 
there was no waking our little lord at all, though the 
great folk from miles around had come to see you. So 
Betsy was called and she led you away. ‘My sakes, 
Master Godfrey,’ she said to me later, ‘I brought him 
a fine pigeon pie, but down goes his head on the table 
and off to sleep again, poor tired lamb. I led him to his 
room just now. Will you run upstairs and put him in 
bed ? ’ So up I came; and here you were, standing with 
your head against the fireplace, sound asleep on your 
two feet; and asleep you’ve been ever since.” 

The puzzled child rubbed his eyes again and his mind 
struggled to clear itself. 

“I did have my head against a mantel, not that man¬ 
tel, but it was my mother, not Godfrey, who found me; 


80 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


and we sat a long, long time in that great leather chair 
by the fireplace, not by that fireplace. Oh, well, I can 
ask my mother about it some time, when we are alone. 
It wouldn’t do to ask questions.” Then he spoke aloud, 
“What did my mother say when I was not there for 
breakfast ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, dear me, she had no time this morning to trouble 
herself about so small a matter. His lordship, Sir 
Roger, and all those great folk rode over to Lindsey 
Hall quite early. The young Lord of Bethune is to be 
married this day fortnight, and the gentle Lady Anne of 
Lindsey is to be his bride.’ 7 

“Why in the world did she go so soon? The wedding 
is not to be for two weeks. My mother will not be 
away all that time, will she? What would she be 
doing ? 9 7 

“Doing? What would any lady be doing? Dancing 
and riding out with the hunt, to be sure, having a gay 
and merry fortnight.” 

‘ ‘ I can not see why an old lady like my mother would 
want to dance so much. Dance and hunt for two whole 
weeks!” Gordon was lonesome even now. “And she 
won’t come back at all till after the wedding?” 

“Perhaps not then. You must have a bee in your 
bonnet for calling people old. It is well for you that 
Lady Margaret did not hear you say she is one who is 
no longer young.” 

“Well, she is old!” Gordon cried almost angrily. 
“Her hair is snow-white.” 

Snow-white! The Countess of Ravenhurst is so old 
that she is snow-white! That would be a joke for her 
rivals! What a sleepy-eyed child you were last night! 


MY FRIEND GODFREY BERTRANDSON 81 


Your sweet mother is fair, very fair, my lord. As to her 
age, what sort of gray head have you that your mother 
needs be aged?” Godfrey laughed merrily. “My little 
lord, ’twas just eleven years last Christmas, that the old 
bell rang out her welcome to Ravenhurst. Many a fine 
ballad was written and sung in honor of the gallant 
young Gordon and his bride, the White Rose of Doug¬ 
las. Here you are trying to tell me she is old, aye even 
white-haired. Come, come! There are many who say 
the Countess of Ravenhurst is the most beautiful woman 
in Scotland. Her age, would you know it, is six and 
twenty; hut none would guess it.” 

“You have never spoken of my father before,” cried 
the lad. It hurt him to hear Godfrey speak so lightly of 
his mother. They could not be the same—that frail, 
sorrow-worn mother of last night and this gay lady of 
the world; but, had his mother ever spoken to him ? God¬ 
frey had found him asleep with his head against this 
fireplace, not that other one. Could all the long, strange 
talk of last evening be but a dream? “You never spoke 
of my father before,” he repeated. “Please tell me of 
him. Where is he?” 

“You never asked before. I do not like to speak of 
sad things. He is dead, my lord. The old castle rang 
with hunt and song for two short years, and then Lady 
Margaret was a widow. Your father died quite sud¬ 
denly. A bit of a cold caught while hunting, was all it 
seemed at first, but he was gone in a fortnight. ’ ’ 

The boy sat looking up at the fireplace with a troubled 
countenance. Was the brave father of last night only 
a dream? But it would not be wise to ask questions. 
He was sure of that, so he said nothing. 


82 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Come, come! Let us talk of more pleasant things, 
my little lord. Now, if you wish Lady Margaret to be 
pleased with you wdien she returns, see how much you 
can learn in a fortnight.” 

How the little lad did study; but then what else was 
there to do? He had no playmates of his own rank, 
others were too far beneath his dignity as heir of all 
Ravenhurst. Poor boy, how he longed for the old free 
days when he had no dignity. So he put his whole soul 
into his studies; and every scrap of work he did was 
saved to show his mother. That little mother, he had 
known her but a few hours yet how he loved her, more 
than Daddy Shannon, yes, more than Mammy, too. His 
little heart filled up when thinking of them, yet he knew 
he loved her more. “She is really and truly my own 
mother. That must he why. When she comes home, 
she will straighten out all the puzzles about that first 
night.” So he thought as he stored away those treas¬ 
ures, sheet after sheet. 

Gordon had been hard at work for three weeks. There 
was pride in his eye as he placed his last page upon the 
others. Godfrey smiled. “Well, my lord, that pile in 
the drawer must he thick now. What are you planning 
to do with them? Build a monument or use them for 
the breastworks of a fort?” 

“Oh, you are laughing at me, Godfrey. You see, 
mother will come home in a day or two, and I want to 
show them to her.” 

“Show her the last two or three then. She would 
hold up her dainty hands in horror if she should see 
your first attempts.” 

“Uncle Roger would laugh at them, but she will not. 


MY FRIEND GODFREY BERTRANDSON 83 


She will know I did my best. Anyway, the last are 
better, for you used to say, ‘How much paper between 
those blots?’ and now it’s, ‘How many blots on that 
paper?’ There is only one blot on this, just the place 
where that ‘h’ got its hump on the wrong side and I 
tried to turn it over.” 

“It looks as if you turned the inkhorn over and a 
spider took a stroll across the page, but never mind, 
you will be a scribe some fine day.” 

“0 Godfrey! See where the road turns the point of 
the cliff! It’s the carriage! 0 Godfrey, it’s the car¬ 
riage! There goes the big bell!” and the boy was gone. 
Racing down halls, sliding balusters, banging doors, he 
arrived in three short minutes at the castle gate. Then 
he waited, and then he thought. He had been good, that 
is he had been quiet, for three long weeks; and now, 
just when it was almost over, he had been a wild man 
of the forest once more. Sir Roger would hear—oh, 
well, he was used to his uncle’s sarcasm; but his mother ? 
Would she be angry? The soldier just beside him— 
there was a twinkle under those bushy eyebrows—was 
he laughing? He had saluted most gravely; but, if he 
were laughing, then the heir of all Ravenhurst had dis¬ 
graced himself before the soldiery. “You see,” the lad 
gasped, “you see, my mother is coming! You see, 
you see, I forgot my dignity. Please, I could not help 
forgetting. I want her so!” 

The twinkle had grown till the grim old mouth was 
smiling also. 

“Lady Margaret is coming, is she? No wonder ye 
came on the wing. When ye bounded o’er the hedge 
yon, I could but just make my old eyes remember it 


84 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


was the young laird himsel’ and no’ the gay Sir Jamie 
o’ the long ago.” 

“Sir Jamie? Oh, did my father ever forget his dig¬ 
nity? Wasn’t he always still?” 

There was a chuckle, low and rumbling, in the griz¬ 
zled throat. 

“I dinna mind the day when he had a dignity to 
forget. Mayhap there was none left for him; since Sir 
Roger had a’ there was to be found fra’ the Orkneys to 
Lands End, and carried it a’ the time; but Sir Jamie, 
bonny little Sir Jamie—bold and free as the wind o’ 
Ben Ender. Your father was a soldier as were a’ the 
lairds before him. Sir Roger will never make ye intil 
a knight o’ my lady’s feather. Ye will be as the earls 
that are no more, for ye are a splinter o ’ the old Gordon 
steel; and there’s no’ a soldier in the castle but would 
lay down his life for you. 

“Oh, but I ran in the hall and slid down the 
baluster. ’ ’ 

“Dinna be worrying. None but the servants saw ye. 
Not one of them would bring trouble on the little laird 
for many a bawbee, but I’ gee a breath o’ wind to your 
shaft, laddy. Yon Godfrey will think ye have broken 
a’ the plumes on your dignity, if he find ye talking with 
a common soldier. It comes to my mind it would no’ 
be a crime if ye were found plucking a wee bit nosegay 
for your mother.” 

“Oh, thank you, soldier, thank you!” 

“God’s blessing on my little laird. Mind ye one 
thing, old Edwin’s at your service. Hist! He’s com- 
ing.” 

A thought flashed through the child’s mind, keen and 


MY FRIEND GODFREY BERTRANDSON 85 


clear as the call of the curlew, an echo from that first 
night, “Old Edwin, the gate warden, is true.” 

When the tutor came sedately down the great stone 
steps, he beheld the heir of all Ravenhurst standing on 
the velvet sward gathering rosebuds. The old soldier— 
never a stone in the ancient gateway was more rigid 
than he. 

The chains rattled and groaned as the drawbridge 
came creaking down across the moat. There was a hol¬ 
low sound of horses’ hoofs and the carriage rolled in. 
Sir Roger stepped out, alone. 

“My mother?” The boy’s voice had a choking sound. 
“My mother? Did not she come? Is she ill?” 

“Oh, no, Gordon, there was no need for her to leave 
the merrymaking. Matters of State brought me, but 
she may as well remain till the end.” 

“When will she come, uncle?” 

“In a week or so, perhaps. Have you studied well?” 

The days slipped away one by one. It was fully six 
weeks since Sir Roger’s return. Still the pile in the 
drawer grew. Gordon was placing his last task upon 
the others. Godfrey laid aside the grammar. “Well, 
my lord, how soon will you need a new drawer for that 
collection ? ’ ’ 

“Mother will come in a day or two, surely. The 
drawer will not overflow before then. She will be so 
disappointed if she can not see them all.” 

“Are you sure of it? I fear it is you who will be 
disappointed for your pains. WTien you carry that cart¬ 
load to her, she will say, ‘Run along, child, and do not 
trouble me with that rubbish. The maid must arrange 
my headdress.’ ” 

“Don’t, Godfrey, don’t! My mother is not such a 


86 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


woman! I would hate her if she were like Sir Roger/’ 

“Your mother is a most excellent lady; but have a 
little common sense; do not trouble her with trifles. You 
have one grave fault, my little lord. You are a dreamer. 
You have built an angel in your mind and named her 
mother; then, forsooth, if the real lady fail to have 
golden wings, you will hate her. Have a care, your 
dreams may cause the loss of your head one fine day. 
You worship a dream-church even as you worship that 
dream-mother. ’ * 

“No, Godfrey, it is you who are the dreamer. I think 
my mother is a true mother, just as Mammy Shannon 
was; but I know that the Church is true.” 

“My little lord, do you see the oaks over on Ben 
Ender? Last spring their leaves were tender green. 
They grew more beautiful with lengthening summer 
days. Now the glory of autumn is all but faded. A 
few more northern winds, and the oaks will be bare and 
ugly. They are a picture of your dream-church. Fresh 
and fair in her beginning; days of strength, days of 
glory came and went; now she is all but dead.” 

“Oh, no, Godfrey! Are the oaks dead, because the 
leaves have fallen ¥ Neither is the Church of God dead! 
This is only a winter of persecution, and the spring will 
come again for us, too.” 

“Now, bravo! There is eloquence as well as wit in 
that. Your brain will be as keen in argument as was 
Lang-Sword’s steel in battle. Let your training be what 
it should; and, mark my words, the day will come when 
the House of Lords, aye, even the king himself, will hang 
breathless upon your words. What reason is there to 
fear that such an intellect can be long enslaved by 
Romish fables!” 


MY FRIEND GODFREY BERTRANDSON 87 


‘‘Oh, it is not that I know how to argue; hut you 
have the wrong side, Godfrey. The side that is not 
true always has a hole in it.” 

“Well, is this a lesson or a tale in which you are so 
interested?” Sir Roger was standing beside them, a 
letter in his hand. ‘ ‘ Pardon the interruption, but Lady 
Margaret has sent good news. It will he of great bene¬ 
fit to you in time.” 

“ Oh! Is she coming home to-morrow ? What is it ? ” 

“Coming home! Oh, no; in fact, I doubt if you see 
her again before reaching manhood. She has been chosen 
maid of honor by the Queen, and must go to London 
at once.” 

Sir Roger passed out, he seemed in fine spirits. Gor¬ 
don walked over to the window and stood there kicking 
his foot back and forth against the wainscoting, whist¬ 
ling—anything to conquer the tears. Then he walked 
slowly to the drawer, took out that treasured pile and 
threw it on the coals. He leaned against the mantel and 
watched them bum. A hand touched his shoulder. He 
started; the memory of that other hand came back 
strongly. 

“No!” he muttered. “No, she was only a dream. 
Such a mother would not treat me like this.” 

Gordon raised his eyes and looked at Godfrey. “She 
does not care a thing for me, and I love her so! ” 

“Oh, yes, my lord, she does love you in a way. But 
you can not expect her to care for you as other mothers 
do. She has seen you so seldom. Then, remember, a 
queen’s wishes are commands.” 

The hoy went back to his books. He worked even 
harder than before; hut he saved no more papers to 
show to one who would never care to see them; and 


88 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


there was a bitter stinging spot in his heart for many a 
long, long day. 

Winter winds raged down from the northern seas till 
the waters of the frith beat themselves in foaming fury 
on the rocks below the great tower. Sleet, fog, and the 
clinging, stinging cold of the Scottish Highlands kept 
the boy almost a prisoner in the ancient castle. Alone 
with Godfrey Bertrandson, breathing in, day after day, 
the flattery-sweetened poison of his words; alone with 
bitter thoughts against his mother, which he kept even 
from Godfrey; it was winter indeed in the soul of the 
little Gordon. 



i 


CHAPTER NUMBER SEVEN 
THE RUIN IN THE WOOD 



















Chapter YII 

THE RUIN IN THE WOOD 


ARCH came. The lad stood by his 
window watching the sun rise. 

“Oh, how warm! It is really 
spring at last. I am going for a 
ride before breakfast. I have not 
been outside since I don’t know 

when.” 

He ran out into the hall. Godfrey was there. 

“Good news, my lord, your tutor has good news for 
you. Sir Roger decided last night that he would send 
you to Glasgow to prepare for the university. You will 
go in the fall.” 

“Oh, Godfrey! Are you going, too? And there will 
be all those football games!” 

“Football is it? You must do more than play foot¬ 
ball. You must become a learned man, so that you can 
bring your earldom to its proper place.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I know! I mean to study, but I have not played 
with a boy for almost a year.” 

“Yes, yes, I understand. I know how you feel, quite 
natural for a lad; but here comes your uncle.” 

“Well, my little Gordon.” Sir Roger was smiling. 
“I thought I was the only early bird. A messenger 
brought this letter a few minutes ago. Read it, my dear. 
It is as much for you as for me.” 

The lad took the note, a dainty bit of parchment with 
an odor of roses about it. His mother was now in great 



91 






92 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


favor with the Queen. She had made a conquest, and 
was soon to marry the earl of something or other. He 
could not make out the name nor the long title. There 
was not a word about himself, not so much as “my love 
to the boy.” She had forgotten him. The bitter spot, 
which had been burning all winter, was almost past 
bearing. He did not ask if she were coming home. He 
wished never to see her again. Why should he? She 
had no love for him. 

“Gordon,” said Sir Roger, as he took the note from 
the boy’s hand. “I am much pleased with your prog¬ 
ress in study. You have a brain and use it. Now, I 
am going to give you the best education to be obtained 
in Scotland.” 

“Oh, thank you, uncle! When am I going?” The 
lad was thinking of football. “I do want to go so much; 
and I ’ll study, oh, I will study, uncle! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Godfrey will take you to Glasgow next fall; but, re¬ 
member, you do not stir one step till I have your word 
that there will be no papistical nonsense while you are 
gone.” 

Gordon did not answer with the indignant “no” that 
had always come before. His heart was full of bitter, 
stinging anger. He was longing for boyish games, as 
only a lonely boy can; and the devil begins to fish when 
the water is muddy. The lad turned on his heel and 
walked down the hall toward the stables with a quick, 
short step. Sir Roger would have followed, but God¬ 
frey touched his arm. 

“Let well enough alone, my lord. Leave that dose 
to sink in.” 

The horse had been in the stable for days. He would 


THE RUIN IN THE WOOD 


93 


not stand still even while Gordon mounted. They were 
on the bridge before it was down and under the old 
arch in a flash. The steed gave a little snort and tossed 
his mane, then away he flew toward the wood. Gordon 
leaned forward. Away, away through the clear sun¬ 
shine, over the hedges, over the ditches with a catch in 
his breath, dodging under branches just bursting into 
leaf—oh, what a glorious ride! 

The horse stopped, panting, at the edge of the wood. 
God’s sweet sunshine had put a better spirit into the 
boy. 

“Good ride, old fellow, good ride!” he cried, slap¬ 
ping the horse’s shoulder. “Take it easier if you want 
to, you are getting hot.” 

A bird in the great larch above him set up a bit of 
spring tune, and Gordon whistled in answer. His hand 
was deep in his pocket, as boys’ hands are sure to be. 
Something hard touched his fingers. He drew it out— 
only a little brown rosary. 

“I wonder how it came there. I haven’t said it for 
a long time, and I meant to say it every day; because 
the folks at home in Maryland promised to say it for me. 
I wonder if they forgot. No, Daddy Shannon would not 
forget. Well, I’ll say one for them now.” 

He slipped the beads through his fingers and the little 
brown beads brought memories. The old cabin seemed 
before him, mother kneeling by the cradle rocking it 
with her foot, father giving out the prayers, and all the 
little Shannons answering, ‘ ‘ Holy Mary, Mother of God, 
pray for us sinners.” He saw daddy reaching one hairy 
hand to give little Which a cuff for tickling Tother’s 
feet, but never pausing in the prayer. Then came the 


94 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


old log church. Friar Cornwall’s solemn voice, but still 
the same sweet prayer that the angel said: ‘ ‘ Hail Mary, 
full of grace.” And the great day—was it only a year 
ago?—the great day when they made their First Com¬ 
munion, he and Joel. He thought of the joy of that 
moment when, kneeling at the altar rail, he saw the 
priest raise the Host above the chalice and the long 
awaited moment had come. He thought of the promises, 
boyish promises, earnest, loving, whispered to the good 
Lord Jesus; and he remembered with a start that he had 
given no answer to Uncle Roger in the hall. Daddy 
Shannon seemed to be standing at the edge of the wood¬ 
land and saying, “No man can lead you into sin if you 
don’t follow him. Stand on your own two feet and be 
a man.” 

“I wasn’t a man this morning, daddy,” he thought, 
as if in answer. ‘ ‘ I wasn’t a man; but I ’ll be one, even 
if I never do have a boy to play with in my whole life. ’ ’ 

Suddenly the horse stood still. There was a wall of 
trees in the way. They were so close to each other that 
none had a chance to grow. Some seemed dying, others 
were dead. The row stretched out to right and left as 
far as he could see. 

“It looks for all the world like a hedge that has not 
been cut since the dear knows when,” he thought, then 
turned to the right and rode along beside the hedge. 
He found an opening farther down and looked through. 
On the other side was a field with a strange row of trees 
running around it. “An oat field once, I guess, by those 
bunches of old straw among the weeds; but it must 
have been long, long ago. Look at those young trees.” 

A bush moved, and a deer sprang from behind it, 


THE RUIN IN THE WOOD 


95 


head raised, ears alert and foot uplifted. A frightened 
sniff, a scamper of hoofs, it was gone. The horse, a 
hunter bred, dashed through the opening between the 
trees; and Gordon, dropping his head against the beast’s 
neck, barely escaped the fate of Absalom. They hounded 
away across the field, over the bushes, and under the 
trees. The deer sprang through an opening in the hedge. 

“I am not going through that place, old fellow,” cried 
the lad, tugging at the reins. “Maybe you can get 
through there, but I want my head for a day or two 
more.” Gordon had a good wrist for his age, but the 
horse had a good neck for his age. The animal was full 
grown, the boy was not. “Can’t stop him,” he gasped. 
“It’s jump off or be raked off.” 

Loosening his feet in the stirrups, he dropped the 
reins and jumped. Gordon struck, rolled over a few 
times, and lay still until the dizziness of the fall had 
passed; then he sat up, rubbed himself and took stock 
of his injuries. 

“Kind of shaken up inside; head aches some; knee 
stings; nothing but a bruise and a skinned place; guess 
I’m all right.” 

Jumping up, he ran to the hedge and slipped through. 
The horse was gone, so was the deer, and he was stand¬ 
ing at the edge of an old flower garden. The weedy bed 
beneath his feet had once been a star of roses over which 
a crested boar’s head grinned from his place on the 
great sun-dial. A cross of Malta lay beyond with a 
marble fountain at the center; but the rose bushes were 
choked with dead thistles, the gravel covered with moss, 
and the frog in the broken fountain croaked to the liz¬ 
ard that sprawled lazily on the sun-dial. 


96 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


The building just beyond had once been majestic, but 
fire and time had made of it a vast ruin. The cloister 
lay in blackened heaps, half covered with moss and 
vines; but here and there an arch yet stood, held more 
by the ivy than by its own strength. The gothic win¬ 
dows of the minster were broken and blackened, but the 
morning sun glinting through them, sent long, dancing 
prism lights across the weed-grown lawn. The lad 
crawled over a broken window sill. From the jagged 
pane above him our Lady, Queen of Heaven, smiled, 
twelve stars upon her brow, the Infant half hidden in 
the folds of her mantle. 

“My mother,” Gordon whispered, “my mother, she 
is like Sir Roger, but you loved your Son. If I have 
you, I have a mother still—and—I all but turned against 
the Faith this morning.” 

Gordon dropped down into the ruined minster. The 
carved stalls were about him. Many had fallen, some 
were half buried beneath parts of the roof, which had 
come down years and years before. There were heaps 
of dead leaves on the moldering beams, plants grow¬ 
ing upon them and many vines. A sapling oak leaned 
over the altar, slender, graceful. Beneath it the taber¬ 
nacle door hung open on one hinge. A robin, perched 
there, looked at the boy with frightened eyes. Her nest 
was in the holy place. Gordon paused on the altar step, 
and the bird flew to the tree. He put out his hand to 
take the nest, but stopped with it in air. 

“I wonder which is worse, to leave the nest there 
or to put my hand into the tabernacle?” 

“Leave the poor bird in peace, Gordon,” came a low, 
powerful voice. 


THE RUIN IN THE WOOD 


97 


The boy turned with a frightened cry. Halfway down 
among the ruined pews stood a tall figure in a long, gray 
cloak. His face seemed but a yellow skin stretched 
across the skull; but the deep blue eyes were full of 
life. They were kind eyes, and Gordon lost his fear as 
he looked into them. 

“See, you have frightened the little bird. She is 
doing no harm where she is. That place has not been 
God’s altar for eighty years and more. How is your 
mother?” 

“My mother!” 

All the anger of the morning burned in the lad’s 
voice. He spoke out wildly, spoke as he had never done, 
even with Godfrey, told it all—all that had been burn¬ 
ing in his heart these long bitter months. 

“And you believed this—all this—poor, foolish little 
boy!’ ’ 

“Believed it! Isn’t it true?” 

“Not one word of it!” 

“Where is my mother, then?” 

A great hope was springing up in his heart. Perhaps 
he had not been dreaming; perhaps a real mother had 
sat with him beside the fireplace on that first night. 

“I do not know where she may be.” 

“Then how can you say the story is not true?” 

“Why do I know this wild tale is untrue? Little 
Gordon, I know Margaret of Douglas. Poor Margaret; 
how much she has suffered! And you, boy, how could 
you believe such things of your own mother ? But, then, 
poor child, you did not know her.” 

“But Godfrey said so! Uncle Roger must have lied 
to him.” 


98 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


‘‘Godfrey is your friend, the best friend you have, is 
he not?” 

“He has always been kind to me, sir.” 

“Oh, yes! Very kind! He tells you what a bright 
boy you are and that you will be the greatest lord old 
Ravenhurst ever had.” 

“How did you know that” The boy flushed pain¬ 
fully. 

“Godfrey is Bertrand’s son. Do you know who Ber¬ 
trand was? Not yet? In time you shall. A devil with 
the oil of flattery upon his lips is a double devil, boy.” 
The stranger paused as if in thought. “So, Margaret 
has been gone for seven months. Did she speak to you 
about your faith or your father before she disap¬ 
peared ? ’ ’ 

Gordon was troubled. Had his mother really spoken 
to him on that first night? If that gentle, sorrow-worn 
mother were not a dream, she had forbidden him to 
mention the subject of which they had talked. 

“You need not fear to tell me,” said the stranger, 
seeming to read the lad’s thought. “You know to whom 
you are speaking, do you not?” 

“No, sir. Who are you that knows so much about 
my mother and me?” 

“Stephen Douglas.” 

“Uncle Stephen? Dunkie Tewee?” 

“You have changed much since you used to call me 
by that name. Did your mother speak of Sir James or 
of your religion?” 

“Yes, Uncle Stephen. That is, I don’t know if she 
did or if I dreamed she did. I think she talked to me 
a long time on the night I came from Maryland. Maybe 


THE RUIN IN THE WOOD 


99 


she didn’t, but I think she told me all there was to tell 
about my father and was going to tell me more but 
she stopped strangely all of a sudden.” 

“Do you know what penalty she was to pay for such 
talk ? ’ ’ 

“No, uncle. She did not say anything about that.” 

‘ ‘ Sir Roger told her, if she ever dared to speak to you 
of Sir James or of your faith, he would execute the 
law to the fullest extent. Do you know what that 
means ? ’ ’ 

“No, uncle.” 

“If a widowed mother persists in teaching the ancient 
faith to her children, any relative of the new faith may 
take her children from her. Roger said, if she went 
against his will, she would never see your face again.” 

“If she had told me—” 

“Margaret would not have told you her own dangers. 
She is unselfish. No doubt, Godfrey had an ear at the 
door. Your mother knew the risk and took it. Fearing 
you might get into trouble by some foolish attempt to 
rescue her, she did not tell you of Sir Roger’s threat. 
That would be Margaret’s way. God grant the dastard 
had enough mercy to put her in a cell above ground. He 
knows what a dungeon did for his own mother. ’ ’ 

“Where do you think she is?” 

“Some place in the old castle, in or under the north 
tower, no doubt. The dungeons are there.” 

Gordon scraped his heel back and forth among the 
dry leaves. 

“She has been suffering all winter long, and instead 
of helping her, I have been thinking mean things. ’ ’ 

“Let it be a lesson to you, then. Never allow any 


100 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


one to come between you and your mother, or between 
you and your God. Those two friends are true.” 

The little Gordon stood with eyes of dumb agony. 
Only the noble can feel the biting of remorse. The gray- 
cloaked friar waited, watching. He knew the metal of 
that boy and left pain to give the caustic cure, to burn 
out whatever mite of dross could be within that strong 
young soul. At last the Gordon drew a long breath as 
if shouldering a load. He looked up at his uncle. On 
his boyish face was the light of awakening manhood, a 
deep strength scarcely expected there. But, because it 
was impossible for him to open his full heart as yet, 
when he did speak it was a mere commonplace which 
he asked. 

“Uncle, what does my mother look like? Is she a 
little, white-haired, frail old lady? Godfrey said I had 
been dreaming. He said my mother is young and very 
beautiful. ’ ’ 

“Your mother is not old in years, a little past forty. 
She seems old because she has suffered so much. Her 
hair has been snow-w T hite since that night when the 
dragoons came for your father. Sir James let me make 
his castle my headquarters. You know I am an outlaw, 
child. To give me food or shelter is a crime punishable 
by death. I fear your father gave his life for mine. 
Could you but remember that night, which followed 
the arrest of your father, you would know if your 
mother loved you or not. Toward morning her heart 
was so faint that Benson whispered to the other watcher, 
‘Begin the beads again, Jeanie, her soul is passing.’ But 
Margaret’s eyes opened wide. ‘Pray!’ she gasped. 
‘Pray that I may live. I can not die. God helping me, 


THE RUIN IN THE WOOD 


101 


I will not die. I must live for my son’s sake. ’ And you, 
boy, you could let that smooth-tongued Godfrey make 
you hate her! No, no, those words were too sharp! 
Forgive me, child! You are only a lad. How could 
you know the depths of your mother’s love?” 

But Gordon suddenly spoke out the thought that had 
been on his lips a moment before when as yet he could 
not control himself to speak it. 

“Uncle Stephen, mother said you are a priest.” 

“Well, I am, child.” 

“Then couldn’t I—couldn’t I—go to confession to 
you here? I can not keep these awful sins upon my 
soul. And, uncle, I am fasting. Perhaps—that is—is 
there any way for me to receive Holy Communion? 
Maybe then I wouldn’t be so bad any more.” 

Friar Stephen took the tear-stained face in his hands. 

“I have frightened you overmuch, my son. You 
have been sorely tempted, but I do not think that you 
have sinned grievously. If Sir Roger were to hear that 
you had received the sacraments, he would be very 
angry.” 

“He often gets angry. I shall not mind that.” 

“This will be a very different sort of anger. He is 
cruel, as all cowards are. There will be no one who 
will dare to defend you.” 

Stephen spoke slowly, as if weighing his words; yet 
in his soul he knew what the boy’s answer would be. 

“My father suffered, and mother is suffering now.” 

There was joy in the soul of Stephen Douglas. Many 
were the prayers he had said, many the penances offered 
that this day might come. 

“So you are ready, little Gordon, ready to take your 


102 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


first step on the path of those who suffer for God. Here, 
take this vellum. It contains the story of your sainted 
ancestors written by your mother’s own hand. She 
feared the truth concerning them might otherwise never 
be made known to you. Read it when occasion presents 
itself, but he careful that no one see it. I feel the hour 
is nigh when you will need the example of Sir Angus 
Gordon and your own martyred father to strengthen 
you for the battle.” 

“Oh, mother began to tell me about Sir Angus Gor¬ 
don and then broke off suddenly,” interrupted the boy, 
taking the neatly bound vellum reverently and placing 
it in his doublet. 

“No doubt she realized that eavesdroppers were near, 
and she postponed the recital of his glorious martyr¬ 
dom to a more opportune time, which, alas, never came . 9 9 

Then taking a kerchief from his cloak pocket, the 
friar began to bind it over the boy’s eyes. 

“Why are you covering my eyes?” cried the startled 
boy. 

“It is not wise for you to know where the good Lord 
is hiding.” 

“Do you think I will tell?” cried Gordon, cut to the 
heart. ‘ ‘ Oh, bad as I have been, I would not do that! ’ ’ 

“No, no, child! You would not tell. I did not mean 
that, but Godfrey will ask sharp questions and judge 
by your face when he finds the truth. Bertrand’s son 
is cunning, child; but he can not learn from you what 
you do not know. So, you will go with the bandages 
over your eyes. There is a long walk before you. Say 
your prayers as you go.” 

A long walk it was indeed, with many turns and 
twists. At last Friar Stephen spoke. 


THE RUIN IN THE WOOD 


103 


“Be careful now! We are to go down steps.” 

Down, down, down they went, and then on again. It 
was damp and cold. Gordon knew it was a cellar; but 
never thought the prudent friar had led him about in 
the wood only to take him into the same ruin from which 
he had brought him. At last Stephen turned a key in 
a lock, opened a door, and removed the bandages. They 
were in a place so dark that Gordon could scarcely see. 
No little, trembling light burned red through the dark¬ 
ness. The enemies were too many. Only the holy still¬ 
ness spoke of the Guest Divine, and the little Gordon 
knelt to adore. 







» 


« 




/ 










CHAPTER NUMBER EIGHT 

THE TENDER MERCIES OF A 

COWARD 








/ 







Chapter VIII 

THE TENDER MERCIES OF A COWARD 


IR ROGER and Godfrey stood 
talking for a good half hour. There 
was so much to be planned now that 
the heir was won—oh, it would 
soon come—won from the errors so 
dangerous to the earldom. Both 

were in fine spirits. 

‘‘ I wonder where my little nephew went ? ’ ’ Sir Roger 
asked pleasantly. 

“He was about to take a morning ride when I saw 
him, my lord.” 

Sir Roger stepped toward the door of the old earl’s 
room. “It is time he is returning. No doubt I can see 
him from the window.” 

“The hall window has a good view, my lord,” said 
Godfrey uneasily. 

“No, I think the old earl’s is better,” he said as he 
walked on. 

Godfrey turned and hurried away, thinking as he 
went, “Now the fat goes into the fire. I have man¬ 
aged to keep him out of that room for a long time. Tut! 
The blaze is bound to come. It might as well be on this 
day as on any other—better—he will not spoil a vic¬ 
tory, all but won. His temper will blind him while it 
lasts. I shall keep out of sight until it cools. Talk to 
him for a few minutes and he will agree with me—not 
a hard task. I wish it were as easy to influence the 



107 





108 THE OUTLAWS OP RAVENHURST 


young lord; but I have done that, I have done that!” 
Godfrey chuckled. ‘ ‘ I made Gordon think he was dream¬ 
ing, a wise trick and well played. Sir Roger will see 
the point, the necessity of the change I made in the 
mantel. He can understand that at least, poor dunce. 
It is queer how he holds to his mother’s wishes in re¬ 
gard to the old fireplace. The ancient faith still lives 
in his heart, weakling though he is. But he shall not 
spoil the victory.” 

Sir Roger was seldom in so good a humor. He was 
humming a snatch from an ancient ballad as he opened 
the door of the old earl’s room. One glance at the fire¬ 
place, the smile died. With a hiss of fury he turned 
toward Betsy, who had just begun her morning duties. 

“How comes this!” he roared. 

“Please, my lord? What, my lord?” 

‘ ‘ The fireplace! Here are the remains of a fire on the 
hearth and the carvings and paintings! Who dared?” 

“Please, your lordship, the young gentleman just rose, 
now—I mean the time for the room to air—you see, my 
lord.” Betsy was in tears and stammered more than 
ever. “There was no time—I mean—I’ll have it tidy. 
Oh! my lord, don’t look like that! I had no time to 
clean it yet. I-” 

“No time to clean it! You know well you had no 
right to have a fire on it! Every servant in the castle 
knows that it is forbidden to use this fireplace! ’ ’ 

11 Please, my lord, w^e thought you changed your mind, 
my lord, after it was fixed up all new, my lord. We 
thought it was your lordship’s orders. ’ ’ 

“My orders! Who said it was my orders?” 

“Master Godfrey, my lord!” 



THE TENDER MERCIES OF A COWARD 109 


“ Godfrey? Godfrey Bertrandson told you I gave 
such an order ?” 

“He didn’t just say so, my lord!” 

“What do you mean? Make an end of these tears, 
girl, and use your wits. Lies will not mend matters.” 

“It’s God’s truth I’m telling your lordship. Master 
Godfrey-■” 

“Said I gave the order!” 

“No, my lord. He just told us to do it, my lord. We 
thought it was your lordship’s-” 

“Bid Godfrey to come to me.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Poor Betsy hurried away. 

Sir Roger walked up and down restlessly. He seldom 
came into the old earl’s room. It had memories. 

“This is not because I have any Romanism in me,” 
he said to himself, as if excusing himself to some one. 
“I am not a papist. I never was a papist, at least not 
since my reason was that of a man. It was my mother’s 
wish. She made us promise, standing by her deathbed, 
that nothing should harm the sacred stone. Sacred? 
Oh, no; there is nothing holy about it, no reason why 
it should not be used—none at all—just a whim of my 
dying mother’s; a man must respect his mother’s wishes. 
Every gentleman does that. The stone—no, it is nothing 
—a little wine fell on that years and years ago; only a 
little wine. If some people had seen my anger, they 
might have thought—but people are always thinking. 
Godfrey did not see it. I am glad of that. If he should 
bring it to the ears of the Earl of Russell—but he would 
not do that; no, he would not do that. Oh, well, only 
Betsy knows I lost control of myself—not exactly con¬ 
trol. A gentleman never loses his self-command, it was 




110 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


just indignation. A gentleman should show just in¬ 
dignation when servants-” 

“Please, my lord, Godfrey has gone out, my lord.” 
Betsy was trembling, then she smiled, seeing that the 
storm had past. “I will arrange everything just as it 
was before. The tree trunks were only slipped over 
the soldiers. They are not broken or-” 

“Sir Angus had them made for a disguise—um—to 
disguise the fireplace when—um—in the days of Queen 
Mary, papers—um—and plate were kept there for 
safety. No harm is done to the carvings by covering 
them, hut—um—clumsy. They disfigure the apart¬ 
ment. * , 

“Things will look better when I get them back again, 
my lord, the way they were before, my lord. I always 
did say the soldiers were prettier, not so heavy like.” 
Betsy was bustling about while she talked. “And the 
stone you always like to have kept so clean—it has not 
been soiled, my lord. We placed another stone on top 
of it.” 

“The stone should be kept clean—um—not for itself 
—um—but the mantel is an heirloom, specially dear to 
the countess, my mother—an heirloom—and therefore 
not to be used.” Sir Roger walked out preening his 
vanity. “Cleverly turned, I must say so. Should she 
repeat my conversation, no one will suspect—um—no 
one will think—um—there was anything unusual.” 

Poor Sir Roger! The faith that is sweet strength to 
the faithful believer—oh, how it bums in a sinful soul! 
But it never dies! 

Seated in the library, Sir Roger read perhaps five 
minutes, sent for the butler and stormed at him, called 
for his horse and discharged the groom because he saw a 





THE TENDER MERCIES OF A COWARD 111 


tangle in the animal’s mane, went down at last to his 
breakfast—it had been waiting his pleasure for almost 
an hour—fumed at everything before him; in short, 
acted as such a man will at such a time. Slamming the 
door behind him, he came into the hall again. Some 
servants near the head of the stair were talking ex¬ 
citedly. 

“It is the horse his young lordship rode,” cried one. 

“Sure, I knew it would end in a fall!” 

“Riding without a groom!” 

“Scarce more than a bairn!” 

“I told Ben not to give that colt to him. Frisky! 
Why he wouldn’t stand still even while the lad 
mounted! ’ 9 

“Like enough it is dead he is!” 

“Ben will take the blame! I told him!” 

“Sure, what could I do? The young gentleman 
ordered him!” 

“Hist! There’s Sir Roger!” 

“Tell him!” 

“Do it yourself!” 

“It’s Ben’s place! He’s to blame!” 

“An’ be clapped in the tower! Not much!” 

“Some one has to do it. I will-” Old Edwin 

stepped forward. “My lord, we fear some harm has 
befallen little Lord Gordon. His horse has just come 
in wi’ an empty saddle.” 

“Master Godfrey bade me say, my lord, that he waits 
in the courtyard. He has your horse and a couple of 
dogs,” ventured Ben. 

Sir Roger hurried away. A few moments later the 
horsemen clattered out through the great gate. The dogs 



112 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


found the scent and started toward the wood. A dozen 
grooms followed, poor Ben leading Gordon’s horse. 

Suddenly Godfrey raised his hand to shade his eyes. 
1 ‘There he is now, my lord, just at the edge of the 
forest. ’ ’ 

“He does not walk lame. I wonder how he was 
thrown. ’ ’ 

“Perhaps he was not thrown. I do not like his step, 
my lord.” 

“He does not limp.” 

“I did not mean that, my lord. He walks as if he 
had his mind well made up.” 

“He has come to our way of thinking. Now that is 
good, that is good!” 

“Perhaps so, but I think not. Look at the set of his 
jaws—all the will of the house of Gordon, and a fight¬ 
ing mood at that. I wonder if he could have come across 
one of those outlaws from the Cleuth. If he got off his 
horse to speak to that Muckle John, it could have broken 
away very easily.” 

“Perhaps Stephen Douglas? He comes down about 
the old ruin once in a while,” said Sir Roger thought¬ 
fully. 

“Stephen Douglas! Curse him! No doubt that’s it. 
He has spoiled more plans of mine than any man living. 
Cutthroat of a friar that he is! If Gordon has seen 
him, there will be no doing anything with the boy for 
a year.” 

“If we can find out where the lad saw him, we can 
track Douglas with the bloodhounds, and we’ll do it. 
As for not being able to do anything with the Gordon 
for a year, that boy will learn before he is an hour older 


THE TENDER MERCIES OF A COWARD 113 


with whom he is dealing.” There was an ugly look on 
Sir Roger’s sallow face. 

“Have a care, my lord, have a care. Don’t try force. 
It would be the worst thing you could do,” pleaded 
Godfrey. 

“Don’t try force! Don’t try force! That’s the tune 
you’re always singing! Much good, smooth ways have 
done! ’ ’ 

“You saw this morning the effect of smooth ways. 
Some one has been talking to him of those martyrs— 
fools—of the Gordon line. He is heart and soul set to 
follow them. I’ll see Stephen Douglas on the scaffold 
yet. But don’t try to force the boy now. It won’t do. 
You will only raise all the stubbornness in him. The Gor¬ 
don will is up, my lord. Have a care! If he has seen 
Friar Douglas, he has received the sacraments and-” 

“So you’ve faith in papistical sacraments?” 

“No, but they have effect on those who do believe in 

them. If Gordon has received them, we shall not be 

able to do a thing with him now. Let him alone for a 
few months. Boys forget easily. If you will take my 
advice-’ ’ 

“Take your advice? Whose fault is it that he went 
into the wood alone?” 

“My lord, spilt milk is spilt milk. There is no use 

fussing over it. I should have remembered that it is 

near enough to Easter for some priest to be hanging 
about, but it can’t be helped now. Why make a bad 
matter worse? Let the boy go, my lord, and call out 
every man and dog in Castle Ravenhurst to search the 
wood for Douglas.” 

“I’ll put the bloodhounds on that outlaw—you need 
not doubt that—but as for letting the boy alone-” 





114 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Roger’s face was white with fury—“I’ll teach him one 
lesson this morning. Let him go a month or two for 
open-faced rebellion! Let him go because he is stub¬ 
born ! He will not be stubborn with me again! ’ ’ Driv¬ 
ing the spurs into his horse’s side, he galloped forward. 

‘ ‘ Oh, have a care, my lord! ’ ’ pleaded Godfrey. ‘ ‘ Re¬ 
member the blood in his veins! Remember the will of 
the house of Gordon! Neither you nor any other man 
can break his will. Oh, think, sir! Have a care!” 

“And of what blood, of what house do I come? Am 
I not a scion of the house of Gordon? Neither can you 
break my will! You forget your place, Godfrey.” 

“The weakling of the house of Gordon!” muttered 
Godfrey, but the sneer was too low for Sir Roger’s ears. 

Gordon had seen the horsemen. He was coming 
straight toward them—a slim, boyish figure in the 
shadow of the ancient trees. His square, little jaw was 
set—the iron jaws of Fire-the-Braes and Lang-Sword; 
the firm, almost ugly, ones of the old earl and Sir James 
—the jaw that for centuries had marked the lords of 
the house of Gordon; but the eyes were Lady Margaret’s 
deep blue, almost black, and the old Douglas fire burned 
in them. “Bell-the-Cat” would have been proud of the 
lad had he seen him. But to the boy it was Daddy Shan¬ 
non’s cabin that rose before him, and the rough back¬ 
woodsman at the edge of the clearing. The child whis¬ 
pered as if in answer to the words of a year ago: 

“We’re going to fight it out right now; and, daddy, 
this time—God helping me—I’ll play the man.” 

Sir Roger drew up his horse with a jerk that turned 
the foam red from the points of the bit. 

“Where did you see Stephen Douglas? WRere did 


THE TENDER MERCIES OF A COWARD 115 


he give you the papistical sacraments? The truth, sir, 
or it will be the worse for you!” 

Amazed, the boy stared at him. How could Sir Roger 
have learned so soon ? 

“No words are needed. Your face speaks for you.” 

Godfrey laughed unpleasantly. Gordon’s tongue was 
never made for cunning speeches. It was always yes or 
no with him. Tell a lie ? He never had. Tell the truth ? 
Betray Friar Stephen? Not while the breath of life 
stirred in him! So he said nothing. 

“You went to confession in the old ruin!” Godfrey 
cried sharply. The boy’s face brightened. 

“Guessing wrong this time.” The flashing thought 
had scarcely passed through his brain. 

“Not at the ruin, aye! Where then? At the cave 
among the cliffs? The cavern by the frith side? The 
hollow back of Ben Ender?” 

There was joy in the the lad’s heart. What he did 
not know, could not be learned from him. 

“Answer, will you?” snarled Sir Roger springing 
from the horse. 

“The Gordon does not know, my lord. Can you not 
tell it from his face?” cried Godfrey. “Friar Douglas 
often binds the eyes of children whom he thinks too 
young to trust.” 

“You can answer like a gentleman, whether you know 
or not. Answer, answer, will you?” Sir Roger struck 
the boy with his whip. There are few things that hurt 
like the sting of a fine supple lash. Gordon sprang 
back with a sharp cry. A narrow, red line rose up across 
his face. “Answer, will you? You dare to be stub¬ 
born with me?” The whip rose again. 


116 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Don’t, my lord; don’t!” Godfrey cried. “The 
child does not know, I tell you! ’ ’ 

“Keep your place, Godfrey Bertrandson! You have 
done enough harm and to spare! Gordon would have 
had this lesson long ago but for you. Stand aside! You 
dare to step in my way! This boy shall learn with whom 
he is dealing. Open-faced rebellion! Receiving treason¬ 
able sacraments! Talking to outlawed priests! Refus¬ 
ing even to answer when spoken to! Much good your 
religion does you, young gentleman! Did you ever hear 
of the Fourth Commandment?” 

“Fourth Commandment says, ‘Honor thy father and 
mother.’ Doesn’t say one word about uncles.” 

“You can find your tongue soon enough when you 
wish to give impudence with it. You will know whether 
or not you must obey uncles, when I finish with you! 
Stephen Douglas is not your uncle, I suppose ? But you 
do his bidding! Young upstart!” 

Sir Roger struck quick, sharp blows while he spoke. 
The supple lash hissed through the air and writhed 
around the slim body again and again. The child stag¬ 
gered this way and that from the force of the blows. 
Once or twice, when the burning line just falling crossed 
too many that had fallen before, there came a quick, 
sharp cry. That was all. He did not say one word. 

Sir Roger’s arm was growing tired; but the square 
little jaw was still set, and the blue eyes looked straight 
into his. He began to realize that the hoy’s will was 
stronger than his own. “Weakling of the house of Gor¬ 
don ! ’ ’ That taunt had been thrown at him since child¬ 
hood ; and now, here was a boy with a will stronger than 
his own. Pride stung him. The whip fell again and 
again, but Gordon saw that the coward was weakening. 


THE TENDER MERCIES OF A COWARD 117 


\ 


The light of victory shone in the blazing Douglas eyes. 
There was new courage in every line of that little body, 
still staggering under the weight of the blows. 

The look in Gordon’s eyes stung Sir Roger’s pride 
anew. Yield? Godfrey had seen everything. Yield? 
Even the groom would sneer. He tried to strike with 
the same force as before; but his arm was weary, posi¬ 
tively aching. The whip dropped. He had not the 
power to give what the lad had the courage to take. 

“You may be thankful that I am too merciful to give 
you more.” Then a thought occurred to him. “But 
you deserve no mercy. Go at once to the castle, and, 
without pausing, go straight to your room. You will 
stay there without food or water till you tell me all that 
happened this morning; yes, and until you promise to 
quit the papacy once and for all. ’ ’ 

Now Sir Roger was in great glee. Here was a pun¬ 
ishment that could be carried out to the bitter end. It 
would cost himself no pain. Oh, the tender mercies of 
a coward! 






CHAPTER NUMBER NINE 

THE SECRET OF THE OLD 
FIREPLACE 










Chapter IX 

THE SECRET OF THE OLD FIREPLACE 


ETSY was wiping the last suds off 
the hearthstone when Gordon 
walked swiftly into his room, then 
stopped in amazement, for the fire¬ 
place was before him, not the fire¬ 
place of the last few months, but 
the one beside which he had sat with his mother on that 
strange first night. 

“Betsy, why Betsy, what has happened?’’ 

“Land’s sake! Now, I do hope your lordship won’t 
be put out about it! Sir Roger, he would have it changed 
back again like it used to be. ’ ’ 

“Put out? No, indeed, but how did it happen?” 

“God bless you, my little lord, ’tis a sweet temper 
you have. You never fuss about things at all; but his 
lordship Sir Roger! My, what a temper he flew in when 
he found it was changed. Master Godfrey gave us the 
orders, and we did it whilst you slept. ’Twas the first 
night. He bade me play off that I was Benson. ‘Land’s 
sake!’ says I to him, ‘Benson and I don’t look alike; 
she’s old enough to be my granny,’ but he would have 
it.” Betsy twisted the rag with a snap. “But for the 
land’s o’ Goshen! What’s happened to your face? Sir 
Roger—no one else would dare—he didn’t put the blame 
on you? The vile tempered! Hist! My lord, you won’t 
tell that I wasn’t respectful! But I’ll run for some 
salve! ’ ’ 



121 



122 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“It’s nothing, Betsy; never mind!” 

* ‘ Don’t you suppose I know how that stings ? I ’ll go 
right now, my lord. A brave little man, you are!” 

“No, Betsy, no! I’d rather ask you something. You 
know some—I mean do you know where my mother is?” 

The girl dropped her rags and brush to stare. 

‘ 1 My lord! ’ ’ she gasped. Then after a pause. ‘ ‘ There 
is nothing I would not do. You—you—but the risk isn’t 
just to me. My old mother, she’s a widow, my lord. 
The few pence I make is all she has. I—I can’t lose 
my place.” 

“You do know something. Tell me, Betsy. No one 
shall ever find out from whom I learned; but I want to 
find my mother,” pleaded the boy. 

“Well, ’tis little enough, my lord. Only none of us 
servants ever believed that Lady Margaret went gal¬ 
livanting off to London—not but what she would be an 
honor even to the king’s court, but the tale did not fit. 
Some things do not fit with some people. The countess 
is gentle, my lord; kind, very kind and cheery always, 
but not planning things gay. She was always planning 
things for the poor and sending little comforts to this 
old granny or that down in the village. The tale that 
she was running from one frolic to another did not fit 
and not one of us believed it. More; we were ordered 
on our lives not to let the village folk know she was no 
longer at the castle, and from that time Godfrey began 
to get two extra portions from the cook. He always 
feeds the prisoners, and that made us think-” 

‘ ‘ Prisoners! Where are they kept ? I never saw one. ’ ’ 

“Oh, there are always prisoners in great castles like 
this. They are kept down in the dungeon under the 
north tower. My little lord, you had better mind your 



THE SECRET OF THE OLD FIREPLACE 123 


eye to-day. Don’t cross Sir Roger when he’s in a tem¬ 
per; he would as soon put you into one of those black 
holes as eat his supper. I am fearing you are in trouble 
with him now. No one else would dare to strike your 
lordship. I’ll run right now and get something to take 
out the pain.” 

“But don’t you know anything else?” 

“No, my lord, nothing more,” and picking up her 
pail and brush and scrubbing rags, she hurried out. 

A heavy step came down the hall. The key turned 
sharply in the lock, and the steps went away again. A 
few moments later Betsy tried the door, whispered her 
comfort through the keyhole and went back to her work. 

The long hours began to drag. It was one thing to 
bear the blows as they fell, when his nature had risen 
for the battle, but quite another to endure the never 
ending smart of the wounds which the lash had made. 
He walked up and down with quick, impatient steps—• 
flung himself on his bed, only to spring up again in 
restless misery. The old wag-at-the-wall, steadily tick¬ 
ing all day long, told minutes that seemed to be hours. 
Still no one opened the locked door. Thirst had come 
with the fever, and the new torture drowned, without 
lessening, the other two. 

There was a sudden clank of keys. Gordon whirled 
to face the door. In came Sir Roger. He smiled coolly. 
The new punishment worked well. Between pain of 
body and of mind the boy was near to madness. 

“Have you had enough of disobeying uncles?” he 
sneered. But the child turned in a frenzy. 

“You take my mother out of that dungeon,” he yelled. 
“Under age or not, I’m earl. You shall pay for this, 


124 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


and for your lies and for-” Sir Roger’s grating 

laugh interrupted him. 

‘ ‘ Hunger will tame you, my angelic nephew! ’ ’ 

With a sudden high piercing cry the maddened child 
sprang at him. Sir Roger jumped back, opened the 
door, and was out with more speed than grace. 

Shaken and weary, the lad stumbled to the armchair 
and flung himself into it; but the chair awakened mem¬ 
ories of his mother. Sorrow welled up in him, and the 
pain of his wounds rose with the lull in excitement. A 
moan burst from his lips, but it was choked on the in¬ 
stant. 

“No!” he muttered, “Uncle Roger shall never hear 
a whine from me. He shall never see the mark of a 
tear. He can do without that much fun! ’ ’ Then slowly 
the thought dawned on his mind. “And—and—in a 
way—I did deserve what I got. No boy was ever so 
mean to his own mother.” 

Gordon slid down on his knees and knelt a long time 
with his head bowed on the old chair. Then he sud¬ 
denly remembered the vellum given him by Friar 
Stephen. Drawing it from his doublet, he settled him¬ 
self in the big armchair before the old fireplace to read. 
The cover of the book bore a shield with his own coat 
of arms—the crowned heart of Douglas combined with 
the boars’ heads of Gordon. He noted the beauty of the 
workmanship, the parchment pages of hand-penned 
Gothic print, the queer old-world grotesques, which even 
in his pain half forced a laugh. This must have cost his 
mother years of labor—years that he had spent in Shan¬ 
non’s merry cabin—years that to her had been long lone¬ 
liness and pain. Dry sobs choked him. His love for his 



THE SECRET OP THE OLD FIREPLACE 125 


mother welled up in a flood. Then from between the 
leaves there slipped this tiny yellowed note: 

My little Son, 

Friar Stephen will give this book to you some day. It will 
be in an hour when you shall need it. 

In prayer the thought often comes to me that as you were 
sent out all alone to learn your faith, so you shall stand out 
all alone when your faith is tried. What will the trial bef— 

Pain of mind—or body—or of both? I do not know, but 

always I feel that I shall not be near to blunt the jagged edge 
of that pain. But I can tell you, my son, you are not the first 
Gordon who has suffered. These tales will show how the knights 
of Christ do win their golden spurs. 

Courage then, my son. Whether I am living or with the 
dead, my prayers shall plead for you in that hour; and accept 

this small gift—it is all I have to give, child, save the heart's 

deepest love of 


Your Mother. 








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I 


THE EE TURN OP LANG-SWORD 


I 


N the great room of the seaward tower 
in Castle Ravenhurst, Lady Anne 
stood beside the window and gazed 
on the surging waters below. Her 
arm encircled a fair, strong-limbed 
boy; and now he spoke, pointing one wee finger 
through the bars, “My father, the great Lang- 
Sword, comes to-day. Welcome, most noble lord, 
your heir salutes you!" His voice was slow, es¬ 
saying each phrase with energy, and lisping his 
way through with difficulty. She laughed and 
kissed his rosy lips and cuddled him . With wag¬ 
gish grace he made his mighty speech again and 
won his payment also—well he knew he would. 
They had stood in that place a thousand times , 
looking across the narrow tossing bay to the bold 
headkmd of Ben Ender, around which the path¬ 
way ran that led to the war-racked world beyond 
the rampart of the mountain. All his little life¬ 
time they had waited there. For La/ng-Sword had 
been in France on the king’s business; and the 
child had never seen his father’s face. So long 
had Lady Gordon hoped and watched and 


129 
















130 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


prayed, standing beside the window with Angus, her 
child. 

On the shoulder of Ben Ender where the faint line 
of the path came into sight, rode horsemen outlined 
sheer against the sky. A flash of light sprang toward 
the watchers, touching the window, dazzling their eyes . 
Lady Gordon drew her boy close. 

“It is my lord,” she cried. “He has caught the sun¬ 
light on his sword to signal us. Who else would know 
to touch this window with the light? Wave, darling, 
wave! Thy father comes!” and two white kerchiefs 
fluttered from the window. 

The heavy masonry around her trembled as the can¬ 
non on the seaward tower saluted the returning com¬ 
mander. Above the noisy joy of the garrison boomed the 
castle bell. The folk were hastening from the village; 
plows paused mid-furrow in the fields. 

Now Lang-Sword and his retinue were returning 
through the town—knights in mail on armored horses — 
pennants of red and gold and azure—glint of sun on 
spears and helmets—all the gay riot of sound and color 
that marked the height of chivalry. To right and left 
the earl flung largess. The cheers of the crowd echoed 
among the turrets even to the seaward tower where 
Lady Gordon waited with her child. 

Then a look came over the face of the woman, an ex¬ 
pression of cold and stately grace, as if she had hidden 
her deep emotion under a courtly mask; for, in the hall 


THE RETURN OF LANG-SWORD 


131 


below, she must be Anne, Countess of Ravenhurst, re¬ 
ceiving with gracious welcome her lord, the earl. 

An hour passed. The formal welcome was over, and 
the three sat alone in the great room in the seaward 
tower. Ever since the Holy Three made blessed the 
home in Nazareth, God’s benediction has been upon the 
love of father, mother, and child; and human hearts are 
human hearts whether castle or hovel shelters them. 
They sat on the couch by the window, Lang-Sword and 
Anne and the child, the baby finding a thousand shin¬ 
ing playthings upon his father’s armor and laughing in 
high glee at the strange distortions of his dimpled face 
wrought by every polished curve. The mother spoke, 
telling the many nothings that the little son had said, or 
done, or seemed. The father feasted his eyes on the two 
that were his heaven on this earth. 

A question gleamed in the eyes of Anne. A hundred 
times it had almost crossed her lips, but she feared to 
ask it. As often he had seen the look and tried to turn 
her thoughts away as if he feared to answer. Lang- 
Sword was still in full armor. I71 the court below, the 
troop sat in their saddles; but surely he had come to 
stay, at least a few short weeks—he had been gone so 
long. Trembling, she whispered: 

“Were it not better that you lay your armor by?” 
She paused, for he had suddenly raised the child before 
his face, tossing it till it screamed for the very pleasure 
of the thrills; but Anne could not see her husband’s eyes, 
and when he spoke his voice was steady. 


132 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“The friars will sing Te Deum for my safe return. 
We shall go there presently,” he said. 

Then came the ride under the ancient oaks. Crimson 
and brown of autumn arched the bridle path. The wood¬ 
land’s cloth of gold was spread beneath their feet. The 
lady rode at her lord’s right hand. A groom at his 
left bore the child. They were alone — almost—the troop 
kept a respectful pace apart; and yet, each knight was 
alert in his saddle, and the question bit at her heart. 

Like some saint’s relic set in a jeweled shrine, lay 
the gray old friary, now, alas, but a pitiful ruin in the 
oak wood near Ben Ender. Lengthening years had 
watched its growth since the day when Fire-the-Braes 
made the beginning—wild marauder that he was, lover 
of the moonlit uproar and the daring raid; and yet, 
after his conversion, prompt to deeds of good as he had 
been prompt to deeds of ill. Now a full two hundred 
years he had slept in the shadow of this sanctuary clad 
as a humble Tertiary of St. Francis, and yet at every 
daybreak a Mass was said for the repose of the wild 
Gordon’s soul. Chief after chief had added to the 
foundation as his means or piety suggested. Lang - 
Sword’s eye rested on the quaint minster chapel. This 
was his gift, and he said to his lady: 

“Here God is praised, and the poor of Christ are fed.” 

“And ever shall be,” she responded. 

But Lang-Sword drew his keen claymore from its 
scabbard and scanned its blue-gray edge. 

“And ever shall be—if Highland steel ring true,” he 


THE RETURN OP LANG-SWORD 


133 


answered. He looked away from her as he spoke; and 
Anne drew a swift breath that held a hidden sob. 



Lang-Sword had come into power in time to face the 
dangers which Fire-the-Braes had feared. The centuries 
of family feuds had left Scot so bitter against Scot that 
is was impossible to present a truly united front against 
any enemy. 

In past generations, at least in moments of national 
peril, family quarrels would be forgotten. In the bloody 
circle of Flodden Field around the royal standard of 
James TV they stood, Border spears and Perthshire men, 
Fife and Gordon, Merse and Argyll, feuds forgotten and 
hearts aflame for Scotland; while rank by rank the red 
English bills cut them down. Grim death clutched them 
man by man; but none faltered, none fled. Yeomen, 

spearmen, archer, knight, and earl twisted in one mass 

\ 

of dying men; till, with a crash which shakes the soul 
of Scotland yet, the king charged—and charging fell 
while his lifeblood weltered, out on the silken banner of 
our land, down trodden on Flodden Field. 

So were the Scots from before the days of Fire-the• 
Braes till James TV—ruining Scotland by their endless 
petty feuds, yet loving Scotland to the death, while 
among them stirring up strife at all times, went traitors 
paid with foreign gold. 


134 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Beside this strong spirit of national loyalty, or rather 
causing it and continually reviving it as the feuds killed 
it, was the one great source of unity—the Church in 
Scotland. All Scots were still of one faith. 

There are sincere men on all sides of all great con¬ 
troversies, but Henry VIII of England stands in history 
as an infamous, treacherous, and most cruel tyrant. 
Though victorious at Flodden, his taste of Scottish steel 
was so bitter that he preferred to conquer by fraud 
rather than by war. He saw a way to break the one 
great bond of national unity—the Church in Scotland. 
Constant civil war had left many Scottish lairds poor. 
The lands of the Church, left in comparative peace for 
centuries, were prosperous. Henry whispered in the 
ears of these impoverished nobles to enrich themselves 
by stealing fi'om the House of God. Some took Henry’s 
path to wealth and more would have done so but they 
feared the anger of the young king of Scotland, James 
V. Though of that passionate nature ivhich has often 
many sins to answer for, James had that strong faith 
in God and in eternal truths which makes a man repent 
of sins committed and try to atone—not gloss sins over 
with fine lies. 

James loved his native land and bent every energy to 
heal the feuds which sapped her life. Justice was the 
only road to this. Many nobles were but titled and 
jeweled murderers who lived on spoil. James put these 
men in order, and they went hot foot to Henry’s side. 
James would hear no word of robbery, whether of the 


THE EE TURN OF LANG-SWORD 


135 


war-impoverished common people or of the House of 
God. The royal expenses were covered by rearing sheep 
upon the crown lands. He bade the nobles follow his 
example, and Lang-Sword was the first to obey. 



The gentle old Friar Warden stood by the gate of the 
friary to welcome Lang-Sword, his Lady Anne, and 
their son, Angus Gordon. Behind him row on row 
reaching back to the door of the minster, were the souls 
beneath his care—files of scholarly men with saintly 
faces; lay brothers, rude and simple toilers, but students 
of the lore St. Francis learned from Sister Earth and 
Brothers Storm and Sunshine; and beyond were the 
orphan boys and the sick from the lazaretto. 

All the eyes of this holy hive were turned on Lang- 
Sword with simple, gentle confidence. In the wild outer 
world, convents might be destroyed and the work of 
centuries obliterated; but here, beneath the strong, 
kindly rule of their earl, all must continue to be well. 
Such was the thought behind the gaze. 

In the deep currents of his soul Lang-Sword felt the 
keen joy of their trust in him; and it was with reverence 
that he dismounted and came forward to receive the 
welcome of the Friar Warden. 

“It is with great gladness that we hail your return, 
my lord,” said the old friar. “We have prayed long that 




136 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


God may make you wise in council. Only this very 
fortnight, it has been brought home to us that we should 
give great thanks to God that we are living on Raven- 
hurst lands and under our good King James; for Friar 
William and eight of our brethren have fled to us from 
the ruined convent in Northumberland. A horrid tale 
they tell of theft, and murder, and sacrilege; and they 
say—but may the dear Christ prevent it—that King 
Henry’s men are marching toward our borders and 
intend war upon Scotland.” 

“And King James will meet them on the border!” 
The earl’s voice had in it the clank of steel. “It is for 
this reason that I come to ask your reverence that you 
will bless our banners this morning after holy Mass. 
Also, I bring presents to you from our lord, King James 
—a most beautiful window of fine Flanders glass — 
and bid you in his name to have the orphans say daily 
an Ave for our success in battle and for the birth of a 
royal prince; and for myself, if I should fall, I ask 
some small remembrance in your prayers.” 

So Anne learned the answer to her question; and, 
beneath the mask expression on her face, her lips grew 
deadly white. 

With reverent pomp the ceremonial pageant passed; 
for these were days when friars went barefooted and 
toiled long hours, were coarsely clad and slept on straw; 
but nothing was too rare, too costly, too magnificent if 
it were meant to adorn the temple of Almighty God, or 


THE RETURN OF LANG-SWORD 


137 


bring before men’s mind the daily renewal of Christ’s 
Sacrifice on Calvary. 

To Lady Gordon, crushed in the wine press of her 
pain, the music of chant and beauty of symbol spoke of 
Mary standing by the cross. Silence filled the minster. 
Then sounded the clink of steel as armored knights bent 
low before the King of kings. Eternal strength stole 
through the soul of Anne. She made her sacrifice — 
offered her husband for the cause of Scotland and of 
God. 



November’s winds made desolation of October’s 
beauty. The Lady Gordon took again her never ending 
watch, standing beside the window with her child. Be¬ 
low them the frith tumbled along the gloomy shore, 
angry, menacing, a sullen white tip on every groveling 
breaker. Above, the skies dripped with fog through 
which the dim bulk of Ben Ender glowered. Many days 
they hod been the sentries of endless waiting. Suddenly 
she clutched the child. On the shoulder of Ben Ender 
where the path should be, a misty something moved 
through the fog, a long and winding something; and 
from it, faint, far-sounding on the wet air came the 

notes of the pibroch wailing. 

The Gordon’s awn’ 

The Gordon’s no more! 

Alack an’ a woe for the Highlands! 


138 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


The cannon above her boomed. The castle bell clanged 
with backward stroke, clanged and paused, and clanged 
again. Anne grasped her child with the fierceness of 
her agony. She watched. The winding, wailing some¬ 
thing had reached the village. Through the mist she 
saw a file—a broken rank of staggering men with spears 
reversed and ensigns trailing; and in their midst a black 
draped thing, and they that bore it stumbled as they 
came. The voices of the village rose to her — tumultu¬ 
ous agony, high sounding, wild—Clan Gordon in despair. 

The countess turned from the window. There was a 
fearful quiet in her face, an awful silence surrounding 
her. An esquire advanced, bowed, and lifted the child. 
Softly he followed the lady out of the room and down 
the stairs till she stood at the head of the great hall. 
Around the outer edge of the room the garrison and the 
inmates of the castle ranged themselves, softly, as if 
they dared not intrude themselves on her sorrow. The 
harsh jangling of the drawbridge chains grated on her 
ears; then the rattle of bolts on the outer doors, the 
heavy tramp of buskined feet; and through the arch at 
the lower end of the hall came that woful company. 

The pibroch was hushed. In silence the bearers 
marched up to the feet of the lady. There they laid 
down their burden and drew back the bier-cloth. Lang- 
Sword lay under the eyes of Anne—a bruised and sallow 
face beneath a broken vizor. A groan passed over the 
assembled clan like a winter wind through the oaks of 
Ben Ender, but the lady made no sound. 





\ 




Lang-Sword 






THE RETURN OF LANG-SWORD 


141 


Then Tam, the armorer, addressed the countess: 

“Flodden Field was lost and every orphaned bairn 
was proud to say, ‘My father fell at Flodden.’ Solway 
Moss is lost and every Scot shall hang his head forever 
more!—for Scottish lairds were aye traitors!—may the 
word burn my lips that I say it!—Scottish la/irds wi’ 
honor bought an’ paid for wi’ English shillin’s—chiefs 
o’ Highlands an’ Lowlands soft steppin’ it hame at the 
first charge o’ the Southerns. The yeomen? — a-weel for 
the yeomen that didna flee—but where were the leaders? 
Bach steppet the lads to get fightin’ room and bogged 
doon i’ the morass — helpless! The Southerns butchered 
them like pork at a fairin. Esk Water was a-choket wi’ 
blood an’ wi’ bodies! The English came swarmin’ o’er 
the milldam. Clan Gordon had na faltered yet, though 
a’ aroond us roared the tumult o’ yon dastard flight. 

“Then rose the cry, ‘ Lang-Sword’s down!’ But the 
laird—I saw him my ain sel’—he wrenches him free 
from his dyin’ horse—plucket oot the arrow from his ain 
wound—catches the bridle o’ a riderless beast am’ drags 
himsel’ to the saddle yellin’, ‘Who said that Lang-Sword 
is down? I’ll split the varlet with my claymore! Rally! 
God for King James! Forward! A Gordon! A Gor¬ 
don!’ 

“Then, lady, the laird went down, six English bills 
piercin’ his body. I leaned o’er him as he writhed on 
the blood-sodden clay an’ heard the gasp o’ his death 
word—‘Tell her,’ the laird said, ‘bid my son, Angus, be 
a man. God’s mercy on my soul!’ 


142 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“An’ worse yet must I tell ye, lady. Scotland is 
down! The Church o’ God is down—for James, bonny 
King James, laid him out an’ died after the battle. 

“An’ worse an’ worse must 1 tell ye. The heir o’ the 
throne is born—the curse o’ God, it be upon us—the 
royal bairn is a maid-child, namet Mary!” 

The armorer ceased and a groan passed over the clans¬ 
men. Well did they know the woes of civil war that 
would be during the long minority of a queen. 

Then Anne of Gordon spoke. Somewhere in her deep 

r 

soul she had hidden her widowed heart. Her voice rang 
like a bugle call. 

“No cause is lost while true hearts live! We have a 
queen! Long live Mary, Queen of all true Scots! Ye 
have a chief. Step fomvard, Angus, Lang-Sword’s son!” 

The child dimly conscious that great things were being 
done, stood out before them. His grave baby eyes 
traversed each rugged face, then fixed themselves upon 
his mother. 

“Angus Gordon, lay your hand on the heart of your 
dead father.” 

The child obeyed. Slowly, word by word, as they fell 
from his mother’s lips, he repeated: 

“I, Angus, Lord Gordon, Earl of Ravenhurst, do vow 
allegiance to Mary, Queen of Scotland. I swear to de¬ 
fend my lawful liege lady and God’s holy Church from 
all their enemies, even at the cost of my life.” 

The lisping words died out over the silence of that 
hall. Then sounded the command of Anne of Gordon: 


THE RETURN OF LANG-SWORD 


143 


“Let each man do obeisance to the earl.” 

One by one, the war-scarred clansmen knelt before 
their chief, and his baby hand was wet with warrior s f 
tears. 

Short rang the lady y s order: 

“Each man to his post. We have a queen. We have 
an earl. Castle Ravenhurst never shall surrender!” 



4 




I 


THE LAST STAND OF THE 
OLD EARL 











it* * 



THE LAST STAND OF THE OLD EAEL 


I 


f 


f 



NGUS GORDON rode in the teeth of 
the March wind. Fidl seventy win¬ 
ters had whitened Lang-Sword’s son; 
and yet, like the oaks of Ben Ender, 
he stood snow-crowned and strong. 
Seventy years of storm, civil war and chaos, 
famine and plague—Scotland had scarcely 
known a (< Shrovetide peace” in all that time, 
and Clan Gordon had been in the thick of every 
fray. Sir Angus had kept the pledge his infant 
lips had made there in the feudal hall, among 
his warriors, with his hand on his dead father’s 
heart. He had been true to Mary, Queen of 
Scots, through the wars that raged round her 
cradle, the tumult of her reign, the years of her 
captivity, true till she ended her peerless life 
on the scaffold—a martyr in fact if not in name. 

Now it was her son that reigned, sixth James 
of the old Stuart line, a man like and yet unlike 
the kings that had gone before him. He had the 
same high and headstrong pride, the terrible and 
untamed passions of that race; but into his life 
the gentle influence of the Faith had never come. 


147 


















148 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


He was greater and yet less great than they. His scep¬ 
ter swayed two kingdoms; hut to gain the English 
crown, he had made allies of those who murdered his 
own mother. 

Between the two nations there was peace after cen¬ 
turies of conflict, peace on the old border, in the debat¬ 
able land, in the rebellious Highlands—such peace as 
the conquered know under the tyrant’s steel-shod foot. 

When James crushed the Highlands, he thought it 
hardly worth his time to drive the old Earl of Raven- 
hurst into exile. He had one foot in the grave as mat¬ 
ters stood; what need to spend powder and ball taking 
that strong fortress which in time must fall into the 
royal hands like a ripe apple. His majesty contented 
himself with confiscating land after land till the old 
earl had but the empty title of greatness left to him — 
lord of massive buttresses and stately halls wherein dwelt 
poverty, almost starvation—chief of a clan, but clan¬ 
less. This was the plan of that most gracious sovereign, 
James VI of Scotland, I of England; but leaders will be 
followed. As the Lowlands have ever brought forth 
riches, so have the Highlands given the world men. The 
clan had pledged itself to Angus Gordon. They, who 
made that vow, had long been the food of ravens; but 
the sons and grandsons of those men were Clan Gordon, 
they knew no thought but loyalty. In the wild fastnesses 
of Ben Ender’s glens they lived, rugged as the thunder- 
splintered crags of that mountain, and as true. 

So the earl rode in the teeth of the March wind. He 


THE LAST STAND OF THE OLD EARL 149 


rode a-hunting. Not that the weary old man loved the 
sport hut the orphans that wandered in the ancient halls 
were many; and, tired of salt fish, they were begging for 
meat. The men were at work in the barren fields; so 
Sir Angus saddled his own war horse and went a-hunt¬ 
ing on that bleak March day. 

The old earl was returning toward evening with a 
deer across his saddle, when he thought he heard a moan. 
It was very low; but he was so sure that he had heard 
the cry of a being in distress that he searched the 
bushes for some time. Finding nothing, he was about 
to proceed upon his way; but he could not bring himself 
to do so, and searched again. At last he saw a man 
lying in the shadow of a log and hurried to him. 

“Mother of mercy! Can this be you, Friar Walter of 
Alnewick?” he cried stooping down. 

(i Your ears are sharp, my lord,” answered the friar 
with a faint smile, “and it is a kind heart that makes 
them so; but go, most noble sir. You know that I am 
outlawed.” 

“The king’s men have done worse than outlaw you! 
It is on the rack you have been!” 

“Go, my lord, you must not be seen speaking to me.” 

“Do you think I will leave you here? You are not 
the first outlaw that has found refuge at Bavenhurst. 
It is in my mind that you have been racked for not tell¬ 
ing that holy Mass is offered in my castle. It is for 
sparing me that you have suffered.” 

“Let it pass, Sir Angus. Leave me here. You are 


150 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


risking your life uselessly. All will be over by sunrise, 
and heaven is as near here as elsewhere. For yourself 
you never think, but remember the clan and the orphans 
are depending upon you.” 

“Father, to Ravenhurst you go, whether you will or 
no. Had I the strength of other days, I would carry you. 
That I can not do now; but there are those who can.” 
He raised his battered bugle to those kind old lips and 
the sweet notes rang out, “A rescue! A rescue” — fit¬ 
ting notes in truth for the last call ever blown upon the 
war horn of that veteran in the cause of God. 

Some workmen in the fields came in answer to the 
bugle. They made a rough litter of boughs and, spread¬ 
ing their plaids upon it, carried the friar to the castle. 
For days the good priest lay between life and death. Sir 
Angus would not leave his side. At last he was better. 
He could walk about; but the racked arms were still so 
sore that it went to the heart to hear him moan when 
the bandages were changed. 

The old earl took a trusty lad—the grandson of Tam 
the armorer, called John-o’-the-Cleuth—and sent him 
to find a friendly sea captain that would take the friar 
to France. Not that the priest intended to give up the 
Scottish mission; he was to return when strong again. 
Before going, Friar Walter determined to say Mass, so 
that the faithful might receive their Easter Communion. 
He could not as yet move his own arms; but he asked 
Sir Angus to stand behind him and move them for him. 


THE LAST STAND OF THE OLD EARL 151 


“Ah, Father,” remonstrated the old earl, “how can 
you bear the pain of that?” 

“Do you fear for the Blessed Sacrament, Sir Angus?” 
the priest said quietly. “1 can control my fingers fairly 
well now, and I think I have strength enough not to 
faint. Then, remember we can count upon the assistance 
of God, since this Mass is necessary to fulfil His law. 
It may be a year before J can return, perhaps longer. 
The faithful must receive Holy Communion at Easter 
time, and there is no other way.” 

Mass was said in the great chamber of the seaward 
tower. The fireplace in this room served more purposes 
than one in those wild days. The mantel could be drawn 
out twice its width and lowered so as to form an altar. 
Within carven figures were hidden the sacred vessels of 
the sacrifice and the holy vestments. Behind the mantel 
was a hole large enough to conceal a man. In truth, a* 
cunning piece of Flemish wood-carving was the fireplace 
in the great room of the seaward tower. All could be 
hidden in the space of an eye’s twinkling, sacred vessels, 
holy vestments, even the priest himself. But the best 
laid plans sometimes fail. Judas was one of the Twelve, 
and Bertrand was the earl’s most trusted servant. He 
owed his very life to Sir Angus. A starving, hound- 
tracked outlaw, he had fled to Ravenhurst; and, as with 
all in sorrow and need, the old earl had been a friend 
or rather a father to him. But the Master washed the 
feet of Judas, and that same night was betrayed by him. 
Christ’s nearest followers have ever found the same fate. 


I 


152 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 

Sir Angus sent Bertrand to tell the outlawed Catholics 
that Mass was to be said at Bavenhurst on Easter Sun¬ 
day. Bertrand did that in truth, and then ran post 
haste to Bussell to tell him the same. The clink of gold 
was more to him than gratitude or honor, friend or God. 

It was three o’clock on Easter Sunday morning. The 
great room was nearly filled with the folk kneeling about 
on the floor. In the corner knelt four children. They 
were dear to the old earl. James and Boger were his 
grandsons. The other two, Stephen and Margaret, were 
orphans of the Douglas line; and to them Sir Angus had 
been more than a father. It was to be the children’s first 
Communion day; and the old warrior had prepared them 
well for the coming of the King of kings. But the little 
ones could not say their prayers. They were watching 
the face of the priest. It was so thin and white, yet 
wonderfully beautiful. The lines about the mouth drew 
in so sharply, when Sir Angus moved his arms this way 
and that. They could see the drops of cold sweat shin- 
. ing in the candle light. His voice, as he said the old, 
old prayers, had a strange sweetness in it that sank deep 
into their hearts. 

Then sounded the little bell that warns of the coming 
of the Lord—again the silence—the silver bell’s low 
music once more—the Sacred Host raised high in those 
thin white hands—the sweet-toned bell through the still¬ 
ness—the golden chalice with the Precious Blood—the 

Lord our God blessing them as they adored. 

\ 

There was a clank of armor in the outer hall. The 


THE LAST STAND OF THE OLD EARL 153 


door swung open. Something flashed from the doorway 
through the candle light striking the priest in the side. 
He lowered the chalice, set it quietly upon the altar, and 
leaned against the old earl. 

Bertrand had warned the king’s men. Bertrand had 
passed a rope to them over the wall — Bertrand, the 
trusted servant, the one left on guard, had played the 
Judas. 

The soldiers were everywhere. Men and women fled 
helterskelter through a side door, while the four fright¬ 
ened children crawled hack under a couch and lay still. 
By and by came a silence, and they ventured to peep 
from the hiding place; but what did they see? Twenty- 
odd troopers were standing at the end of the room with 
drawn swords. They were still as if waiting an order, 
and the captain was slow to give it — twenty-three in 
number, but they were in downright terror of the long 
sword in the earl’s right hand. 

Friar Walter lay across the hearth. He was dead. On 
the altar the chalice gleamed in the candle light—beside 
it, the Sacred Host. Just in front of his God stood the 
brave old earl. It was a strange sight—the white-haired 
warrior in the surplice of an acolyte, the light of battle 
in the old blue eyes, and clenched in his right hand the 
long sword that had named his father, that had been the 
ancestral blade of the knights of Bock Baven since the 
days of Fire-the-Braes. By his side was the young lad 
that had served the priest at Mass—Muckle John, grand¬ 
son of Tam the armorer. In his hand, he held the dirk 


154 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


that had pierced the heart of the priest. Twenty-three 
against two, and it was the twenty-three that were 
afraid; but then the earl’s swordsmanship was a toast in 
in two countries. 

The officer took a step forward. One could see he had 
little liking for his work. 

“Captain John Brent,” said Sir Angus slowly, “I 
was your godfather in Baptism. By the vows I took 
that day, I tell you that you have committed a grievous 
sin this day. The punishments of God Almighty are ter¬ 
rible.” 

“My orders, sir,” growled the officer. “A soldier 
must obey orders.” 

“And since when is it, that the orders of a king make 
it lawful to break the laws of the King of kings?” 

There was a struggle on Brent’s face. He was too 
good a man for such a trade. 

“Come,” he growled, “let’s go. We have done 
enough of the devil’s work for one day!” 

The men seemed only too willing to obey. They had 
no wish to match swords with the great Sir Angus Gor¬ 
don; but Bertrand sprang forward. 

“You white-livered cowards!” he roared. ‘Twenty 
seasoned veterans against one old fool and a fisherman’s 
gilly! A thousand pounds reward for the priest’s body! 
The rubies on that chalice are worth rattlin’ guineas! 
Here you stand like whipped curs in fear o’ the lang- 
sword! Don’t you know the old cutthroat has reached 
his doddering days?” 


THE LAST STAND OF THE OLD EARL 155 


“If fight you will, fight I will!” shouted Brent. (< But 
—1 draw for the other side! Perhaps God may forgive 
me the sins of this night!” 

“He will forgive you ” said Sir Angus. 

The captain sprang forward, hut paused and dropped 
on his knees as he passed the altar. He looked at the 
Blessed Sacrament, one sorrowful, pleading look; then 
he took his place. 

Two troopers tried to follow him. 

“Down with the turncoats!” cried Bertrand. Half a 
dozen swords pierced them before they could take an¬ 
other step. 

Something struck the altar. One candle went out. 
The blue light of the lang-sword shot in quick flashes 
through the semi-darkness. There were curses and wild 
cries. Swords clanged as they struck each other, or 
hissed through the air ending that dull sound which 
sickens one’s blood. 

“Brent’s down!” It was Bertrand’s voice. “Finish 
him! That’s a clean stroke! Now back and rest a bit! 
There’s only the old fool left!” 

The troopers drew off a few steps. Sir Angus stood 
in a pile of dead. Brent and young Muckle John were 
among them. The old earl was straight still; but there 
was a wound above his temple, and the blood trickled 
over his thin white hair. The good right arm hung limp 
by his side. The lang-sword was clenched in his left. 
Age was beginning to tell, for his breath came in quick, 
short gasps. 


156 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Then Stephen grasped his sister’s hand, “Hist, Mar¬ 
gie!” he sobbed, “look at the altar!” 

Some sword had struck the chalice. It was lying on 
one side. The Precious Blood was dripping, drop after 
drop, from the cloth down to the hearth and mingling 
with the blood of the martyred priest. 

Bertrand’s voice again, “Once more, and the job is 
done! Up, lads!” 

The lang-sword flashed. A trooper went staggering 
back toward the wall. Another fell, with a wild curse, 
across that dark pile at the earl’s feet. Then Bertrand’s 
sword caught the old man’s wrist. The lang-sword 
sprang high in the air. Sir Angus was down grievously 
wounded. They were dragging him along the floor. 
Others had the body of Friar Walter. 

Then the old earl saw the altar—the overturned 
chalice—the Precious Blood—and Bertrand reaching one 
greedy hand for the chalice with the gems that were 
worth “rattlin’ guineas.” The chief’s voice rang as in 
the battle days. 

“Bertrand have a care! Yon have spilt the blood of 
man this night, brave John’s, and Brent’s, and the blood 
of a holy priest of God; but have a care, Bertrand, if 
you touch that chalice, the blood on your hands will be 
the Blood of God!” 

The traitor turned as if to answer, but a trooper 
broke in. 

“Come on! Let it alone! There’ll be bad luck with 


THE LAST STAND OP THE OLD EARL 157 


a chalice along. There always is. We had plenty o’ it 
the day! Five a livin’ out o’ twenty, and all o’ us 
wounded! It’ll he na ladies’ job to get the dead one an’ 
the live one up to Castle Russell and the old earl jailed 
before sun-up. Matt an’ Dave canna help at a’.” 

Bertrand snarled but he followed them muttering 
under his breath, “I can see to that later. They’re 
worth guineas, rattlin’ guineas!” 




» 


THE GUARDIANS OF 
THE KING 






✓ 








)»» 


THE GUARDIANS OF THE KING 



HE STRUGGLE was over. The chil¬ 
dren were alone. Trembling they 
crept from their hiding place, sob¬ 
bing, clinging to one another in their 
fear. The terror of the battle was 
still upon them, the horror of the sacrilege be¬ 
fore their eyes. 

“We must not leave the altar so,” whispered 
Stephen stepping forward. 

“No, Stephen, no.” James drew him bach. 
“It’s fearful; but we daren’t. It is only for 
priests to touch holy things!” 

“But there isn’t any priest here now. Friar 
Walter urns the only one we ever saw.” 

“There must be one somewhere. I’ll go. I’ll 
never stop till I find a priest.” 

“The fear has taken your wits, Jamie. Can 
you go miles in minutesf We must do some¬ 
thing now. Let me be. Stop holding me back.” 

“It’s you that have lost your wits. We must 
not, Stephen. You know it is a sin to touch holy 
things.” 

“At times like this we can, when there isn’t 
any priest!” 


161 













162 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“No, Stephen, not at any time. Don’t pull away. 
It’ll be a sin on you, Stephen.” 

“But, Jamie, Friar 'Walter said so.” 

“He said so!” 

“Yes, he said so. I heard him, I tell you, and Sir 
Angus said it, too.” 

“Well—if you have Father’s word for it. He 
wouldn’t make mistakes. Are you sure?” 

“I am sure, Jamie.” The two boys took a step for¬ 
ward. 

“Don’t go,” whined Roger. “Aren’t you afraid to 
pass those?” He pointed to the dead. 

“Stay where you are,” blazed James. Nothing made 
him more angry than to see the cowardly spirit in Roger. 
“Stay where you are, sis. Margaret will take care 
of you.” 

Roger followed for a step or two. Poor little coward, 
he was afraid to go and afraid to stay. The other two 
had picked their way over the dead, and now they knelt 
before the fireplace. 

“Oh, Stephen,” cried Jamie again, “do you know 
that you are sure? If you didn’t hear him right?” 

“But I did hear him right!” 

“Well, what did he say for us to do?” 

“Oh, that’s what I don’t know. We must do whatever 
should be done ; but I don’t know what should be done!” 

Stephen looked with trembling reverence on the Sacred 
Host, lying there so white and still. “Oh, Lord,” he 
prayed, “don’t You see how it is? We don’t know what 


THE GUARDIANS OF THE KING 


163 


we ought to do, and we must do something. We can not 
leave You like this. Please forgive us if we make mis¬ 
takes, and forgive us our sins so that we shall not he 
to had to touch Your Sacred Body and most Precious 
Blood.” 

From that moment hoth hoys lost their fear, and knew 
the good Lord God would reward with His eternal grat¬ 
itude whatever poor, little, clumsy service they might 
render Him, now lying as if helpless, as if needing their 
care. 

Stephen took a clean finger towel and raised the chal¬ 
ice with it. Then he cut out from the altar cloth the 
linen stained hy the Precious Blood and laid it gently 
in the chalice. With a little linen, James absorbed the 
pool upon the hearth. He passed the cloth to Stephen, 
who placed it in the chalice. Then he lifted the paten, 
slipped it under the Sacred Host, and placed it with its 
holy Burden over the chalice, covering all with the 
corporal and a piece of linen cut from the altar cloth. 
James laid a piece of clean linen upon the hearth stone, 
and over it a shield. That was the only thing at hand. 
The lads turned from the altar. The dead lay all about 
them in the cold gray light of the dawn. 

“We must get these bodies out of here,” whispered 
Stephen. “Things ought to be tidy. This room is the 
same as a church now.” 

The bodies lay as they had fallen about the old earl f s 
feet—a tumbled, ghastly pile with one great trooper face 
upward on top. The look on his brutal mouth made 


164 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


them shiver. There was another face just below. It was 
peaceful, almost beautiful. 

“That is Captain Brent,” whispered James. “I won¬ 
der if God forgave him.” 

“Oh, surely. He was sorry right away and he died 
defending the Blessed Sacrament. Maybe he’s looking 
at us from heaven this minute; but that other—is he 
suffering for his sin right now?” 

“Didn’t get much by sinning, did he? Thought he’d 
have a lot of money, and instead got a slash from the 
lang-sword.” 

“Say, we shouldn’t be talking. We’re forgetting this 
is a church in here.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Nothing but a board creaking.” 

“It’s more than that!” 

“There it is again!” 

“On the stair!” 

“It’s a step!” 

“Maybe it’s Bertrand!” 

“He said he’d come back for the chalice!” 

“There it is again!” 

“Oh, quick! How do you open that place back of 
the fireplace?” 

“That won’t do! Bertrand knows the hiding places 
better than we do!” 

“Here, hand it to me! Wrap the linen tightly! The 
soot will get in!” Stephen had stepped into the fire¬ 
place and was clambering up the chimney on the rough 


THE GUAKDIANS OF THE KING 


165 


stones. James passed the chalice to him, then ran hack 
to where Roger and Margaret were standing. They 
crawled into their old hiding place under the couch. 

A hoard creaked in the hall. The children lay scarcely 
breathing. The door swung open silently. Bertrand 
crept in. 

“Gone!” he snarled. “Gone, as I am a living man. 
No wonder they were for leaving it for luck. Came after 
it themselves. No, they couldn’t have heaten me. They 
had to take the old fool down to the dungeon. There 
must have been someone left in the house.” 

He slipped hack into the hall. Under the couch the 
tense little muscles relaxed a moment, hut the next 
instant Bertrand was gliding hack through the door. He 
seemed intent on beginning his search with the secret 
places of the great fireplace. 

“Oh, let me get behind you,” whimpered Roger. 
“You are bigger.” He tried to crawl over Margaret 
hut his foot slipped. There was a scraping sound. 

“What’s that?” Bertrand was beside the couch in a 
moment. He caught James by the foot and drew him 
out. “Where is that chalice?” he snarled. “Don’t 
deny that you know!” 

“I’m not denying it.” 

“Where is it, then?” 

“Do you think I am going to tell you?” 

Bertrand gave him a cuff. “Might as well argue with 
a mule. There’s no time to lose. Who else is under¬ 
neath?” He stooped down to look. “Margaret? not 


166 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


much better. Stubborn piece of baggage. Roger, come 
out here, you.” Bertrand reached in and caught the 
little coward by his long curls. 

“Oh! Oh! Owe!” he squalled; but the man drew 
him along without mercy. “Where did you put that 
chalice?” 

“I didn’t touch it. 1 — I—I didn’t do anything. 
Ouch, oh, don’t! I say I didn’t—even I told them 
not to!” 

“Who?” 

“ Oh-o-o-o-Sss!” began Roger. 

“You dare say a word, you little coward! Is there no 
drop of Gordon blood in you? Were you changed in 
the cradle for a swine driver’s child? A dastard’s no 
brother of mine,” blazed James. “Let the baby alone, 
Bertrand! lie had nothing to do with it. If you want 
to take spite out on any one take it out on me.” 

“I’ll give you enough before I go—enough and to 
spare, you mule head!” Bertrand gave Roger’s curls 
a savage twist. “Answer me, booby! Who took the 
chalice?” 

“Oh, owe, oh! I say. Please let me go,” wailed the 
child looking from Bertrand to his brother and back 
again. The poor little weakling did not know whom he 
feared more. ‘Oh, don’t! You hurt so!” 

“Where is it?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“That’s a lie!” 


i 


THE GUARDIANS OF THE KING 


167 


“Owel OK! Owe! Owe! They’ll tell mother on 
me if I do say who!” 

“Your mother is in prison. Small harm or help can 
she be to you!” 

“Owe! Please stop, Bertrand! I’ll give you fine 
things when I grow up if you do.” 

The servant laughed derisively. “Fine gifts of young 
Laird Landless!” he mocked, still twisting the child’s 
hair with savage cruelty. 

It was too much. Pain had triumphed. “Owe! Aye- 
aye-aye! Oh! Stephen. He — he’s xip the chimney ' 
with it! Oh! Oh! Oh!” 

Bertrand dropped the sobbing boy and ran over to 
the fireplace. He looked up into the black hole. A 
foot scraped. A cloud of soot fell. He sprang back in 
time to miss it. 

“So that’s your game, my lad! Soot works two ways, 
boy! Better come down before the fire is lit!” 

No answer from Stephen save another gift of soot. 

“There’s a basket of kindling in the hall. Get it, 
Roger.” 

The sobbing boy turned to obey. 

“You just dare!” yelled James springing at him, but 
Bertrand caught the elder boy by the collar. “Do as 
I bid you, Roger! I’ll attend to this meddling brother 
of yours and settle him!” Then he rained kicks and 
cuffs on James until Roger returned with the wood. 
“Take that for the stubborn mule that you are and 
always will be!” Bertrand snarled with a blow that 


168 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


sent the boy spinning across the room. James struck 

with his head against the stone wall; but he was on his 

* 

feet in a moment. 

“Come on, Margaret,” he called, “we’ve got to keep 
him from starting that fire. It’ll kill Stephen. He’ll 
never give up.” 

Blood was streaming from the boy’s temple; but the 
pain only roused his spirit to madness. The two children 
sprang upon Bertrand. James caught him by one hand 
and Margaret by the other. The boy made a battering 
ram of his head, while he kicked with all his might. It 
was little so small a girl could do. Her teeth were sharp 
and she used them. Between the two they held the ser¬ 
vant for a time. If Roger had helped, they might have 
overcome him; but small aid will a coward give. 

“Roger,” cried Bertrand with a foul oath, “light 
that fire!” 

“If you do!” yelled Jamie. 

The poor weakling stood sobbing. The fighting midg¬ 
ets seemed to be holding the man. So Roger obeyed 
his brother, though he grew white at Bertrand’s mut¬ 
tered threats. 

The strength of the children began to fail . Bertrand 
caught Margaret’s hand. Then he caught Jamie’s. He 
tied the wrists together with a cord wrapped many times 
around, and swung them up over the high carven back 
of the couch. There they hung on agonizing muscles, 
for the little girl’s feet could not touch the cushions, and 
the boy was dangling down the smooth back. James 


THE GUARDIANS OP THE KING 


169 


made matters worse for his small comrade without real¬ 
izing the fact. Being much the heavier, he had dragged 
her wrist over to his side of the top; and the weight was 
on her tender flesh. 

Roger fared little better than they. Bertrand now 
beat him cruelly for failing to obey him. Then they 
lit the fire. 

“Oh, pray, Margie, pray!” sobbed Jamie. “Stephen 
unll die! He’ll never give up! Oh! he’ll die!” 

There was a scraping in the chimney. Poor Stephen 
was trying to climb from the flames. 

“Get a little water, Roger,” sneered the brute. 
“Smoke will reach him anywhere.” 

The scraping within the chimney seemed still in the 
same place, and Bertrand laughed. 

“Put the water down. We do not need it yet. He 
can not climb.” 

Again a frantic scratching in another place and 
higher up; then silence in the chimney. 

“He is out of reach of the fire,” said Bertrand. “Pass 
the water pail to me, Roger. That’s a good boy. We’ll 
give him a smoking.” 

Bertrand dashed water on the fire. The smoke rose 
in a white cloud and no more sound came from the 
chimney. 

Suddenly Roger screamed. The trooper on top of 
that dark pile of slain was moving. There was no 
doubting it. Broad daylight had come now. He was 
slowly rising. He could not be living. No man alive 


170 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


ever had such a gash across the throat; but moving he 
was. His head rolled this way and that. His arms rose 
and fell again. Bertrand’s face whitened with terror. 

4 

The trooper raised his head till the staring eyes were 
full upon him. Then the head nodded and dropped back. 

Bertrand waited for no more. The children heard 
his swift steps echoing through the vacant halls below, 
then silence. James was the first to come to his senses. 

“It’s not the trooper at all. It’s Muckle John, down 
underneath, moving him. Come out and cut us down. 
Aren’t you hurt?” 

“I canna get out,” replied the young sailor. “I canna 
lift the body.” Then with a bit of a chuckle, “But 1 
lifted him eno’ to have the laugh on yon Bertrand.” 

“Here, Roger, help us down,” called James. 

“You won’t hurt me, will, you, brother dear? Prom¬ 
ise me you won’t.” 

“No, you booby. I wouldn’t dirty my hands by touch¬ 
ing you. Hurry, you poor little sneak! Stephen can’t 
get out of the chimney and you know it. Maybe the 
smoke has killed him.” 

Roger freed his brother and Margaret as swiftly as 
possible, probably hoping to curry favor and save later 
trouble. James sprang toward the fireplace as soon as 
his feet touched the floor. 

“Margaret, you roll that trooper off John, can you? 
I’ll help Stephen,” he called over his shoulder as he 
raked the smoking embers from the hearth out on the 
stone floor. “Throw water on them, Roger. You can 


THE GUARDIANS OF THE KING 


171 


do that much maybe. Hurry! The smoke is mean!” 

Laying a shield upon the hot hearth, James stepped 
into the fireplace. “Slip down, Stephen. I’ll catch 
you,” he called. 

There was no answer. James looked up into the 
black hole above him. “Get me a stool,” he called. 
“Stephen must have fainted. Be careful. Don’t set 
your dress afire. Thank you, Margaret. There, hold it 
steady!” James had climbed on the stool and was 
standing with his head in the chimney trying to loosen 
Stephen’s body. “Catch him, Margaret! He’s slip¬ 
ping! Easy! The chalice! Be careful! The chalice! 
I have it! Steady! Hold Stephen! There you have 
him! Take him out on the floor, can you t That’s it! 
Roger, help!—Will you? Lift him past the coals!” 

Roger and Margaret managed to lift Stephen over the 
smoking embers while James was climbing from the stool 
holding the chalice reverently. 

The cloth was still in place. Not a speck had touched 
the sacred Trust. Stephen had guarded his Lord at a 
bitter cost to himself. He lay where his sister had placed 
him — eyes, nose, and mouth filled with soot. 

“The young gentleman’s done for, my lord,” 
groaned Muckle John, dragging himself up on one elbow. 
“He’d be chokin’ or gaspin’ like if there was a breath 
o’ life in him.” 

“Oh, no!” cried James. “Drowned folk are limp 
like that, when they’re not dead yet. You fishermen 
work their shoulders some way. Tell me how.” 


172 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Turn him face down. No, not that way. Don’t let 
his face touch. If I could get hold of him.” John strove 
to drag himself toward them, but he fell back among 
the dead. “I’m nigh done for, my ain sel’. Not that 
way, my lord. Bold him up a bit. Work his shoulders. 
Na, na—more round about like. They’re no pump han¬ 
dles. Aye, if I could get the lead oot o’ me and help 
ye. There that’s better though it’s no’ the right way.” 

James worked desperately. Still there was no sign 
of life. Margaret had her brother’s burned feet in her 
lap, sobbing over them, while she tried to loosen the 
stockings without breaking the blisters. 

“If he would only cough or something,” wailed 
James, weary with his struggle. “Or if I had sense to 
do what you tell me, Muckle John.” Suddenly drop¬ 
ping his friend, the boy turned toward the altar. “Oh, 
Lord,” he cried, “Stephen was hurt taking care of You. 
John can’t do anything. We haven’t mother or nurse 
or anybody. Won’t You help us?” 

The trustful prayer of a child is an arrow that pierces 
the Heart of God. Stephen moaned faintly and twisted. 
Then came a sudden coughing, which seemed to tear his 
little lungs asunder, and he spat out quantities of soot. 
For an hour or more he lay in his friend’s arms, racked 
by the maddening cough and faint from exhaustion. His 
eyes were dazed, but slowly, as time passed, they cleared , 
and he staggered up saying, “Who put that dirty rag 
over the Blessed Sacrament?” He stumbled over to the 
altar. “Oh, yes, the soot from the chimney.” 


THE GUARDIANS OF THE KING 


173 


He lifted the cloth reverently and, taking the clean¬ 
est bit of linen left, laid it over the chalice. Excitement 
seemed to have made the child unconscious of his burns; 
but now that the sacred Trust was safe, his face grew 
sick with pain, and he sat down on the floor rocking 
himself back and forth in his misery. 

Suddenly Muckle John raised his head. “What’s 
that?” he said. 

“1 heard something! There it is again!” 

“A step! It’s in the lower hall!” 

Stephen staggered up on those poor burned feet. Not 
even the fear of more pain could daunt his soul. He 
was on the point of climbing back to his post in the 
chimney, but Muckle John whispered, “No’ so quick, 
my lords. ’Tis no’ Bertrand’s step . ’Tis light, more 
like a lassie’s.” 

“Sounds like nurse!” James dashed into the hall 
and they heard his joyous shout, “Oh, Benson! Good, 
it’s Benson!” 

The nurse maid was in the room in a moment—a sim¬ 
ple, homely country lass; but the angel Gabriel could 
scarcely have been more welcome than was Benson. A 
babel of tongues greeted her. The tale was told in a 
child’s jumble; but whatever of horror the danger or 
the sight of death and sacrilege might have made her 
suffer, she spoke cheerily, and her calmness quieted 
their fear. 

“Poor John, I hope the cut is no’ so deep as you say. 
Never mind, we’ll fix it. Bless us, what a wrist, my 


174 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


little lady!—And such a brave woman she is, hasn’t 
cried at all!—And Stephen — ah, those burns, laddie !— 
But it’s the spirit o’ a Douglas, your lordship is showin’. 
Sir Angus will be that proud o’ his bairns! But you 
and your sister must still suffer in patience. John has 
lost overmuch blood. He is most in need. I must care 
for him first, dears.” 

Benson’s deft fingers had kept pace with her words. 
She had found linen and torn it into bandages, and now 
she addressed James and Roger. “Your young lord- 
ships are unhurt. Will you please bring me the salves 
from the drawer in the buttery, a pan of water also, 
warm if there be any ? Then these bodies must be re¬ 
moved. Such things canno’ lie before the most Blessed 
Sacrament. By the time you are back, I’ll have poor 
John that I dare move him; and, whiles I’m carin’ for 
the hurt, do what you lordships may be able to make 
this room fit for Him that’s abidin’ in it.” 

But Roger drew himself up with much dignity for so 
small a person. 

“Benson,” he stormed, “do you forget your place? 
To whom are you speaking? Those are servant’s duties.” 

“The honor due to your noble blood did no’ trouble 
you overmuch whiles you were playin’ servant to yon 
Bertrand. My lord, your mother, Lady Isabelle, bade 
me take charge of all things durin’ this black time while 
she lies in prison; and I am to be punishin’ of you, Mas¬ 
ter Roger, whenever you stand in need of the same. Well 
she knew the other three would no’ be givin’ trouble in 


THE GUARDIANS OF THE KING 


175 


sic a day o’ sorrow. They know what is becomin’ o’ 
noble blood, and their honor has no’ the queer quirks 
in it that yours has.” 

Roger was white with anger, but one glance from his 
irate brother made him cringe, and peace reigned under 
the government of nurse Benson. At noon James leaned 
over the chair where Margaret was dozing. 

i( Come, my brave comrade at arms,” he said half 
tenderly, half in mischievous remembrance of the min¬ 
utes that they had hung upon the high carven top of 
the couch; and together they passed down the hall. 

The door of the earl’s room was ajar, and they tip¬ 
toed in. It was the most beautiful place the little girl 
had ever seen. Benson had not left a spot anywhere. 
Evergreens had been brought up from the castle yard. 
The chalice draped in white linen stood between rows 
of shining candles; and there at the good God’s feet 
were many new blown violets smiling up at Him, sim¬ 
ple, beautiful, like the faces of loving children. Stephen 
was in prayer. The lines of pain were still upon his 
face; but over it there was a look unspeakably holy, the 
light of the joy that shines on those who have suffered 
for the Lord, our God. 













THE GLORY OF THE 
BITTER END 








THE GLORY OF THE BITTER END 



AYS dragged themselves into weeks 
and months. One by one the clans- 
folk and the household came back 
from prison or from their hiding 
places. Life went on almost as be¬ 
fore, save for the constant worry over the old 
earl and the Lady Isabelle, the mother of James 
and Roger. 

At last in May a carriage swung round the 
shoulder of Ben Ender on the old road from the 
outer world to the little world sheltered behind 
the rampart of the mountain. A bit of white 
fluttered from the window. 

“It is mother! Oh, 1 know it is,” cried James. 

Then the castle bell pealed joyously. Down 
to the great gate ran the three children. The 
old keeper’s hand trembled so for very gladness 
that he could scarcely let down the drawbridge. 
At last down it came with a jolt and a clang, 
and the carriage rolled in. James had the door 
open before the footman could reach it. 

“Oh, mother, how well you look!” he cried 
as he helped her down from the step. “I never 
saw your cheeks so red!” 


179 

















180 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“God bless you, my son,” she whispered as her hot 
lips touched his forehead. “Where is Roger? Ah, my 
dear little ones of Douglas!” and she stooped to kiss 
Margaret and Stephen, but turned away coughing, and 
they knew that she was in pain. 

“Come inside, mother,” said Jamie anxiously. “The 
wind is blowing. You have a cold, haven’t you, mother?” 

“Yes, dear,” she said with strange gentleness. 

Jamie kept close beside her all afternoon. He was 
troubled. He had a fire lighted in the grate, although 
it was a warm day, and brought a little shawl to put 
about her shoulders. At last Lady Isabelle sent them 
all out while she spoke with the seneschal. Then James 
went straight to Benson. 

“Mother is sick,” he said. “I mean she’s very sick, 
isn’t she?” 

The good nurse turned away. There were tears in 
her kind eyes. 

“The damp o’ the dungeon! Oh, I knew it, my lambs, 
I knew it!” 

“Can she ever get well?” 

“I think she be very nigh the gates that be made o’ 
pearl; but play the man , my little laird Jamie. The 
more cheery we keep her, the longer she’ll bide wi’ us.” 

Before the last June roses were in bloom in the castle 
yard James and Roger were motherless. 

News came now and then from Sir Angus. In one 
of Lord Russell’s dungeon cells he was awaiting his trial. 





















Sir Angus Gordon 




THE GLORY OF THE BITTER END 183 


At last the House of Lords sat upon the case. They 
found him guilty. Guilty of what? All his life the 
Earl of Ravenhurst had been a traitor. That was why 
his lands had been given to the loyal Henry of Russell. 
It was but ouring to the extreme clemency of his most 
gracious majesty, King James, that Sir Angus had not 
been beheaded long before. Now his most treasonable 
conduct had become more than the patience of so mild 
a monarch could endure. He had harbored — aye, har¬ 
bored with direct will to displease the king, knowingly 
and with full consent, within his own castle—had har¬ 
bored an outlaw, an accursed papist friar. He had per¬ 
mitted — nay, ordered to be celebrated the foul and 
abominable popish sacrifice of the Mass. He had drawn 
the sword against the king’s dragoons and had slain 
twelve of them with his own hand. No one spoke of the 
honor due the twelve bold warriors that let one old 
man lay them around his feet like sproutings clipped 
from a hedge row. In truth, the Earl of Ravenhurst 
was guilty of death. He deserved to be drawn and 
quartered like a common villain; but, in consideration 
of his great age and the loyal deeds of his father, Lang- 
Sword, King James would be satisfied if he be merely 
beheaded; the sentence to be executed upon the pop¬ 
ish feast of our Lady in Harvest. 

Sir Edward Gordon, an old knight, whom the Lady 
Isabelle had appointed guardian of the four noble or¬ 
phans, said that they should go to see the execution. 


184 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Others said no; such sights were not for children. They 
were too young and would never be able to forget the 
awful spectacle. 

“Forget it? No!” cried Sir Edward. “I want them 
never to forget it! They are the children of martyrs. 
They must stand for the Faith though it cost them their 
lives. Aye, sirs! Let them see a martyr win the palm! 
Let them see and never forget it!” 

The stern Scot had his way. The four children rode 
with him. On the way, he spoke to them of the glory 
of dying for God and for native land. Roger listened 
eargerly. He seemed to think some great honor would 
be shown him as a martyr’s kinsman. A base nature 
can never understand the kind of glory of which Sir 
Edward spoke. As they drew near the throng that 
gathers at such a time, a man turned his head and 
nudged his companion. The other laughed. 

“Yes, I see—Ravenhurst crest—the traitor’s family, 
no doubt. Not so much as one retainer with them. They 
are in beggarly poverty, you know.” 

“Aye, an’ so it should be!” The speaker ums a mighty 
broad-shouldered Scot of the Covenant. “Root an’ 
branch, out wi’ all idolaters!” he shouted. 

“Now, my father,” boasted the first speaker , “he was 
always tellin’ us aboot the doin’s o’ his grandfather, 
that was at the burnin’ o’ the convent i’ the wood. Aye, 
that was a lootin’ worth goin’ to. The papists ha’ 
nothin’ now, but in those days, aye, but they was grand 


THE GLORY OF THE BITTER END 185 


an’ fine—silver an’ rubies, silks an’ cloth o’ gold, a 
pile like a hay cock! That was for the great folk—Laird 
Russell, the fine gentlemen, an’ Queen Bess, down in 
England, an’ all that! But the poor common soldier 
didna’ come off wi’ nothin’. My grandfather had the 
smashin’ o’ the big window wi’ the Virgin on it. ’Twas 
give to the lazy friars by King James that’s lang dead 
—a muckle o’ fine lead my grandfather got oot o’ that 
same; but ’tis na good batin’ the papists now. They 
all be as poor as field mice in famine year.” 

“Keep still,” whispered Sir Edward as he noted the 
flush of anger that rose on the faces of the children. 
“We are the kinsmen of a martyr. We must share his 
glory with him. Poverty and shame the dear Christ 
bore. Keep that before your eyes and be brave.” 

“Make room!” called a brutal voice. “Here be the 
fine papist nobles! Give place! Let them see the old 
fool pass.” 

The crowd opened and Sir Edward’s little party 
pressed close to the roadway down which the earl must 
pass. Roger let his horse slip behind his brother’s as 
they moved forward. James saw him crawling down 
from the saddle. 

“Where are you going?” he asked. 

“I will not be called a traitor’s child!” Roger mut¬ 
tered. “They are pointing at us!” 

“You are not ashamed of grandfather, are you?” 
whispered James. “Don’t be a coward this time, brother. 


186 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Words can’t hurt when we know they are not true!” 

But Roger had slipped from his horse and mingled 
with the crowd. A coarse fellow jostled against James, 
then bowed in mock apology. 

“Be throwin’ your bonnets in the air, lads!” he 
shouted. “Mates, this young gentleman will be Earl o’ 
the Raven’s Roost before he’s an hour older!” 

“Hold your pratin’ for a bully!” called the great 
Scot of the Covenant, shouldering his way toward the 
speaker. “Leave the poor bairn in peace. Sorrow enou’ 
he has afore him! But mind ye, lad, let the aid earl’s 
death be a lesson to ye. When ye be top at Ravenhurst, 
give good riddance to popery.” 

James flushed. Then suddenly he turned and answered. 
His child’s voice had in it the ring of a man’s determina¬ 
tion. 

“When I am earl, I shall take up the battle where my 
grandfather lays it down!” 

A jeer rose from the crowd. But in the eyes of the 
Scot there was admiration; and Margaret leaned toward 
the lad and whispered, her eyes bright with pity and 
with pride, “No cause is dead while true hearts live.” 

Quick gratitude shone in Jamie’s glance. “Aye, little 
comrade at arms!” he said. 

But the words were not heard by the crowd. A sound 
floated toward them. Heads were craned, and brutal 
jests broke forth. Then into sight came the prison cart; 
and standing in it, butt of ridicule, sport of the mob, 
was Angus Gordon. 


THE GLORY OF THE BITTER END 187 


The dungeon had shattered Lang-Sword’s son. He 
could scarcely hold himself erect in the jolting cart, but 
erect he was and a soldier still. The old man seemed 
but the more beautiful for the marks of the dungeon 
upon him. He was looking straight at the crowd, and a 
joyful smile was on his lips. The noise died. The mighty 
Scot of the Covenant turned menacingly toward the fel¬ 
low, who seemed to be the leader of the jeerers. 

“Ye can hald your tongue,” he threatened. “Cause 
na more trouble here! I doot not Russell paid ye well 
to make a racket but I’ll pay ye wi’ my fists if ye do. 
So hald your whist or take yoursel’ off!” Then raising 
his voice he addressed the mob: “Ye all know me. Ye 
ken I hate the papacy! Ye ken I fought the abomina¬ 
tions o’ Rome, an’ will again. But, mates, I fight a 
man’s battle. I would na be one o’ a pack o’ hounds 
batin’ a lone sheep—one o’ a mob o’ louts jeerin’ an aid 
dungeon-broken man!” 

There was a change on those wild faces, for the will 
of a mob is the will of the wind. Sir Edward’s party 
moved forward, and a whisper went through the throng. 

“Give place! Let them pass. They are the old earl’s 
kinsmen.” 

There was pity in the tone; and the crowd followed 
in silence perhaps thinking over their own wrongs. Many 
among them were Covenanters; they were men who had 
suffered from the cruelty of the king, almost as greatly 
as had the fallen Catholics. 


188 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


The cart rattled up to the scaffold. As it stopped, a 
dozen hands went out to help the old earl down. Lord 
Russell, who stood on the platform, seemed a trifle un¬ 
easy. He whispered a moment to a knight beside him; 
then came a curt order. The soldiers drove the crowd 
back from the foot of the scaffold. 

A muttering rose from the mob. They began to move 
as if to join a second throng that was coming up the 
road from the opposite direction. Another whispered 
consultation between Russell and his aids. The action 
of the Covenanters seemed puzzling to them. A troop 
of cavalry was swiftly placed between the two crowds. 

“Well planned, Sir Henry of Russell,” muttered Sir 
Edward. “That second throng are from the Raven- 
hurst lands. They hate their new master, as they loved 
their old one. They have never had the courage to join 
the outlaws of Ben Ender; but will they stand tamely 
and see Angus Gordon die?” The knight’s eye flashed 
with quick fire. “Ho, my bairns, we may save him yet! 
The Covenanters are now more for the earl than against 
him.” Sir Edward’s trained eye ran over the field. 
Then he shook his head. “Six hundred men, I take it. 
Weapons? — sticks, stones, a few sivords. The other side? 
—two hundred horse, three hundred foot, well armed. 
No, my children, it would be folly. A sheer waste of 
life. We could never reach the scaffold.” 

Angus Gordon stepped out beside the block. He raised 
his hand as if about to speak. A hush fell on the mighty 


THE GLORY OF THE BITTER END 189 


throng. His voice was faint—that voice which in years 
gone by had rung above the din of battle. It was feeble 
now and low, yet pier ring-sweet, like the notes of some 
far-off bugle. 

“Sir Henry of Russell asks what I wish to say in 
answer to the charge of treason which now stains my 
knightly honor. There are stains that tell of shame, 
and there are stains that speak of glory. When they 
brought the standard back from Flodden Field, there 
was a stain upon it. Aye, a dark blot upon the fair 
silken banner from Dun Edin; but that stain was the 
life blood of a king. That torn and blood-stained banner 
is a sacred thing. Aye, a sacred thing. Now the faith 
of the king who fell on Flodden Field is called treason 
against Scotland. This faith is that stain which lies 
on my honor as a Scottish knight. This stain is my glory, 
as it was the glory of those that are no more. Would 
1 were worthy to fall under the banner of the King of 
kings, worthy of my place in the red-robed army, led 
by Stephen. Thank God for the honor done me, and 
stand for God and our Lady till we meet again. My 
lord of Russell, I thank you for your courtesy 

Sir Angus knelt by the block and laid his white head 
upon it. Sir Henry turned to the headsman, but the 
brawny fellow was sobbing like a child. 

“Go find a knave that will do your foul work for 
you,” the man said. “I’ll no’ have innocent blood on 
these hands.” 


190 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Russell’s face whitened with anger. A sympathetic 
growl rose from the mob. 

“Allen,” said the old earl gently, “the sin of this 
lies on the judge, not upon the executioner. You will 
be merely doing your duty according to law. Do not 
bring trouble on yourself through love of me.” 

“It may be no sin in the eye o’ the law—queer laws 
they do be havin’ these days! Was it your duty ac¬ 
cordin’ to law to send a cow to my brother’s wife? They 
were no’ your tenants more. If the widow and her wee 
bit bairns were starvin’ what was that to you in the 
eye o’ the law? But you sent the cow!” 

“It is little I gave them, Allen. Do your work, lad. 
I shall bear you no ill will; nor will the good God lay 
this to your charge. Sir Henry is angry. He will make 
you suffer, my poor fellow.” 

“Sir, you gave the best you had and you gave it wi’ 
kind words. If there be men in yon crowd, Angus Gor¬ 
don does no’ die this day! I set my foot on the scaffold 
for that I have given my word to all true clansmen 
that I am come not to kill our chief, but to see to it 
that he is no’ killed!” 

“Aye, aye!—Hald to it, Allen!—There speaks a Gor¬ 
don!” came from strong though scattered voices in the 
throng, for the handful of Ben Ender outlaws was 
sprinkled through the mob. 

“Strike or rot in my dungeon!” hissed Russell. 

“I’ll no’ have a good man’s blood on these hands!” 
retorted the headsman. 


THE GLORY OF THE BITTER END 191 


A roaring applause from the Ravenhurst men. 

“Stand your ground, Allen! You are no’ alone the 
day!” It was the voice of the big Covenanter. 

“The Gordon!” The first shout was faint and fear¬ 
ful, but it was caught up on the instant. Then the old 
war cry burst like thunder. “The Gordon! Clan Gor¬ 
don to the rescue!” The mob surged madly forward, 
catching at anything that might serve as a weapon —• 
sticks, stones, clubs, and here and there a sword. Sir 
Angus sprang to his feet and raised his hand. There 
was silence. 

“Sticks and stones against powder and shot! It is 
folly, pure folly! You can not save me. Bo you think 
1 shall die easier for knowing that more Gordon wives 
are widows, more Gordon orphans wail for bread!” He 
knelt again. “Let the ax fall, Allen. ’Tis an easy way 
to heaven, lad. The clan will suffer for this attempt to 
save me. Let it fall, Allen, let it fall!” 

“Never!” cried the headsman. “Are you men that 
you dally so?” 

A maddened roar came up from the people; and an 
echo, faint, solitary, yet distinct, somewhere among the 
soldiers. 

“Quick, or we are lost!” whispered the knight at Rus- 
selVs elbow. “The troopers are siding with the mob!” 

“Run a sword through that mutineer!” howled Rus¬ 
sell. A dozen soldiers sprang upon Allen and dragged 
him from the scaffold. There was a sharp struggle. 


192 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Allen wrenched himself free and joined the mob yelling, 
“The Gordon! The Gordon!” 

“Gordon for God and our Lady!” thundered the mob 
as the stones began to fly. 

“Fire on them!” rang Russell’s command. 

“Do you see that?” roared the knight in Sir Henry’s 
ear. “Half of them are firing in the air! They let Allen 
go! Quick! A headsman or we are lost!” 

Russell’s voice rang above the roaring of the mob. 

“A headsman! Fifty pounds for a headsman! One 
hundred! Five hundred!” A stone struck him. He 
dodged back under cover. 

Allen was almost at the scaffold again, his club crash¬ 
ing to right and left among the soldiery. 

“Down wi’ them! Why should we stand for King 
James? Russell’s a Lowlander! Scots are we all.” It 
was the big Covenanter at Allen’s side. The two throngs 
were one at last. 

Some one was climbing the ladder. Russell passed 
him a purse. He clutched it with eager, trembling fin¬ 
gers and sprang to the ax. His face was turned and the 
sun shone full upon it. The man was Bertrand. A wild 
cry from the mob, a sudden hush. The steel flashed in 
the morning light, and the grand old man was with 
his God. 


CHAPTER NUMBER TEN 

A LITTLE SPLINTER OF THE 
LANG-SWORD 






\ 



Chapter X 

A LITTLE SPLINTER OF THE LANG-SWORD 


a A SOUND struck on Gordon’s ear. 
if His mind reeled between living 
thought and living fact. Before his 
mental eye still the mob surged 
around the blood-soaked scaffold 
with its sacred dead; still Russell 
snarled, defiant, guarded by his lords, the traitor Ber¬ 
trand cringing in his shadow; still over all hovered the 
disembodied martyr soul, just catching the breath of 
Heaven’s welcoming—salvos of angel hosts, trumpets of 
seraphim, hosannas of the myriad ranks that bear the 
victor palm, and echoing through the courts of bliss the 
Voice from the white throne of God, “Ave, Martyr 
Christi —Hail, Martyr of Christ!” But jarring up from 
the world of fact came a key that grated in a lock, the 
dull pain of the chair in which he sat, the familiar things 
crowding on his sight, and the stunning sense that 
enemies were near. His own battle horn was blowing. 
With one swift movement Gordon thrust the vellum 
within his doublet and rose. 

The door creaked as it opened. Sir Roger was there 
with Godfrey at his elbow. The tutor drew in his breath 
with a hiss. Disappointment darkened Sir Roger’s face. 
He had thought to find a child worn weary with pain, 
petulantly defiant, but breaking. Gordon’s hot words 
of a couple hours back had shown his self-control to 
be weakening. Here, strengthened from some unknown 



195 









196 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


source, the boy stood before them. His face was swollen 
and twisted with pain, yet in his eyes there was no fear, 
no yielding, no weariness, but a look of joy deeper than 
the wrongs of earth, sweeter and stronger than human. 
Godfrey would have slipped out again. Though his soul 
was too grossly formed to comprehend the boy’s exalta¬ 
tion, yet his mind was too cunning to start a battle, lost 
from the beginning. 

Sir Roger sprang forward. There was that in the 
boy’s look which made his soul writhe along the burn¬ 
ing ways of memory. His clenched fist drew back 
menacingly. The Gordon looked calmly, almost pity¬ 
ingly on the man’s fury. It was as if the boy had sud¬ 
denly become the elder. He spoke with a half-stern yet 
sorrowful kindliness. 

“Roger, Uncle Roger, why are you the only traitor, 
the only weakling in the house of Gordon? Has Ber¬ 
trand’s son led you to this shame? But you can throw 
it off even yet, Uncle Roger. Even yet you can be a 
man and not a traitor!” 

Blows like an avalanche were the weakling’s answer. 
Roger’s lean hands were gripped about the boy’s throat, 
throttling him, pounding his head against the sharp 
moldings of the chair-back. One more fearful blow and 
Gordon plunged forward. The heavy oaken chair had 
come upon them both. A maddening crash, upon his 
temple, something warm and wet between his cheek and 
the stone flagging, a creeping dullness. Oh, joy! was 
this death? Death for God and our Lady? 

A scuffling sound came faintly. Godfrey, surely God¬ 
frey had pulled Sir Roger off. Godfrey was forcing 
the frenzied man from the room. The lock grated. 

Gordon lay still and waited. In a moment he would 


A LITTLE SPLINTER OF THE LANG-SWORD 197 


hear the songs of the angels. His heart went out in a 
great swell of joy that soon died away into a terrible 
dread and then to a bitter disappointment. The dull¬ 
ness was passing. Death with its freedom from pain, 
with its joy beyond all earthly compare, was not there; 
but pain was. 

Two hours before, Gordon had thought that he had 
suffered all a boy could bear. Now bruise had been 
added to bruise. In his head a hundred hammers seemed 
pounding. Hunger was gnawing and thirst like a fire 
burned high over other woes. He was alone in his pain, 
as his mother had said, pitifully alone. The great ex¬ 
altation of some minutes before had died, and even 
God with His beautiful heaven seemed far, very far 
away. 

Gordon drew himself up slowly and painfully on his 
elbow. Above him the old wag-at-the-wall told the hour 
with a flat and placid face. Not yet noon, so the clock 
insisted; yet the day seemed years long already. The 
boy wiped the slowly trickling blood from his temple. 
Then he crawled to his feet and stood a bit unsteadily, 
holding to the overturned chair. 

The dizziness began to pass. He took the vellum from 
his doublet and glanced at it, but reading now made 
the throbbing in his head grow worse; yet once again 
he read his mother’s note. “Whether I am living or 
dead, my prayer shall plead for you in that hour.” 

“Ah, at this moment my mother is praying for me, 
and she herself most probably is suffering below in one 
of those terrible dungeons!” 

This thought gave him new strength. Slowly straight¬ 
ening himself, as if by so doing he could the better 
shoulder his cross, Gordon walked over to the fireplace 


198 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


and looked long and searchingly at the picture above 
the mantel. Was the martyr Gordon smiling at the 
lad? It seemed so as he stood there beneath the crossed 
swords; and that square-jawed boy by the earl's knee 
was looking straight into the little Gordon's eyes. 

“You held out to the end and it was the rack, the 
dungeon, the scaffold. I'm a coward if I give up, and 
I won’t! Only, God help me, this is nothing to what you 
bore! I'm a baby! But I haven’t cried yet, and Uncle 
Roger won't see any tears on my face when he comes 
in; and I won't—but you had better pray for me—I 
won't ask for water! I’ll stand, as you stood, for God 
and our Lady!” 

The words were brave, but the noble head was bowed 
on the mantel, the square jaw set, and the brown fist 
clenched by his side. Then the shining silver spot on 
the hearthstone caught his eye, and he knelt down be¬ 
side it. 

“The Precious Blood fell here long, long ago,” the 
lad whispered. “Friar Cornwall said It fell on the 
stones all around where they scourged You! Oh, how 
it must have hurt! Uncle Roger brought the blood only 
a few times on me, and You were covered with blood all 
over.” 

Gordon stooped down and kissed the spot on the 
hearthstone. A strange, deep joy came trembling through 
his soul, and he knew that it is sweet to suffer for the 
Lord. 






CHAPTER NUMBER ELEVEN 
THE ESCAPE 







Chapter XI 
THE ESCAPE 


VENING had come. The wag-at- 
the-wall agreed with Gordon at last 
and chimed its slow-toned angelus. 
The shadow of old Ben Ender 
lengthened across the meadows. 
From lane and field, the tinkle- 
clinkle of returning herds floated up to the weary child. 
It was evening, but never had so long a twilight followed 
so long a day—never since the world was made. The 
boy stood by an open casement. The wind blew about 
him cool and damp, hearing the mist from the sea on 
its wings. He opened his lips and drank in deep draughts, 
vainly hoping the cooling air might do what cooling 
water would; but the raw wind only made the bruises 
ache with a more sickening throb, the fiery thirst burned 
on. Gordon turned and walked back to the fireplace 
with a restless, yet lagging step. Then he stood as he 
had done a hundred times that weary day, fists clenched, 
head bowed upon the mantel, staring at the silver spot 
on the hearthstone. Strength came with that appealing 
look—strength, not joy. Young as Gordon was in the 
way of those who suffer for God, he had learned—per¬ 
haps that sweet touch of the Sacred Heart had taught 
him—not to expect anything but strength in answer to 
prayer, yet to know that this would come. Joy had 
been given once that he might have courage to fight the 



201 



202 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


battle. This was a day on earth to win heaven—not 
heaven come down to earth. 

“Jesus!” Faith had grown in the land of pain. 
The boy seemed looking into those eyes beneath the 
thorn crown, filled with blood and dust and tears. 
“Jesus, I am tired. Uncle Roger means what he said, 
I must stay till I give up—till I die. If it was only 
die and be done with it—but I shall live for days. Oh, 
it is not too much! I did not mean it that way, but I 
am wearing out, Jesus, and if I slip—oh, I don’t want to 
go back on You!—but if I slip, if the thirst gets more 
than I can stand. You won’t let me say those words, 
Jesus, You won’t let me fall.” 

A drop of blood splashed on the silver spot. Gordon 
started, opened his hand and looked wonderingly at a 
nail-cut in his palm. 

“I didn’t know my fist was shut so tight.” Then he 
stooped to wipe away the blood drop. As he did so, a 
dim thought floated through his mind—faint, uncertain. 
“That first night—she said—my mother did say—if I 
should be in trouble—seek—seek whom?—old Tam’s 
grandson—John—Muckle—John-o ’-the-Cleuth—and he 
lives?—oh—I remember it all now—the secret passage 
ends near his home—and Uncle Roger doesn’t know 
about this passage that begins at the old fireplace. How 
to open it?—oh, I remember now! But my going would 
leave mother alone. Well, I can do her no good as 
things are. Perhaps—or surely—this John-o’-the-Cleuth 
would help me. I’ll go.” 

Gordon drew a chair toward the mantel and climbed 
on it. “The soldier on the right hand, she said, and 
twist the handle of the sword twice—but it won’t move. 
Perhaps it was broken during that changing. The blade 


THE ESCAPE 


203 


went farther down into the handle before. There is the 
mark. Why won’t it slip down?” 

The lad twisted the handle sharply, then pushed the 
blade downward. It slipped into place with a metallic 
click. “That’s it! Now round it goes, one, two.” 

Springing from the chair, he ran to the left side of 
the fireplace. The panel moved under his fingers, slid¬ 
ing silently into the wall and disclosing a black cob- 
webbed hole. Running back again, Gordon pushed the 
chair into its place, wiped the dusty footprint from the 
seat, straightened the rug, and looked about him. 

“There is nothing to show them what I’ve done, so 
far as I can see. Uncle Roger will spend some time 
to-morrow guessing how I got away. If I can find this 
brave John, he will help me get mother from the 
dungeon; and God speed me on my way.” 

Then the lad hurried to the passage and climbed 
through the opening. His fingers sank in powdery dust, 
a thousand cobwebs clung to him. Beyond, the hole 
seemed full, and the must in the air choked him. Gasp¬ 
ing, he thrust his head into the room again to draw one 
more deep breath. 

“Well, it’s go! Find John, get mother and—oh 
surely—there will be some little stream near the outlet 
in the forest. That means a drink. I would go through 
anything for one drop of cold water.” 

Drawing back his head, Gordon slipped the panel over 
the opening. The last ray of light died. His groping 
hand touched a bar; as it slid into the socket, he heard 
the lock click far up in the soldier’s hand. 

Gordon felt about in the darkness. The passage was 
small, scarcely large enough to crawl through, and 
seemed to run along in the wall. His groping hands 


204 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


found the floor level for some twenty feet, then came a 
rough stone stairway. Turning around, he crept down 
backward for a dozen steps, and again the way was level. 
A sharp turn to the left, and a radiant, fan-shaped light 
shone far ahead in the darkness. 

‘ ‘ Why, there is the end! It is not so long as I thought 
it would be.” 

Gordon hurried forward; but the bright spot was not 
the end. It was only a small hole in the wide wall. 
There was a faint hum of voices. Scarcely daring to 
breathe, he crawled on till he was within the dancing, 
mote-filled light. Oh, how small the hole was—not 
half so large as his own eye. He looked through—then 
drew back in terror. Not a dozen steps from the wall 
sat Sir Roger. 

“Uncle must have seen me!” gasped the lad. “No, 
the hole is too small and too far away for him to look 
through it. Funny, isn’t it, when I can see him so well ? 
It’s the library—there is Godfrey. What’s that he 
said ? ’ ’ 

Sir Roger’s snarling tones came in answer. 

“The foolish child will yield in the morning. You 
are always finding fault!” 

“I do not think so, my lord.” 

“But the hunger—consider the hunger!” 

“The thirst is worse, probably. Did I say the boy 
suffers nothing ? Sir, I said he will not yield! ’ ’ 

“Nonsense! When a child is in real pain—” 

“Was he in pain—real pain—beneath the lash? Or 
when you throttled him six hours ago, did you bend that 
Gordon will a hair’s breadth? He will die, my lord— 
not yield.” 

“Well, if he is so stubborn, let him die then!” 


THE ESCAPE 


205 


“And when it reaches the ears of the Lord Warden, 
what a pretty tale! The wise guardian has starved the 
heir and is now become Earl of Ravenhurst. ’’ 

‘ ‘ But it is expected that I shall turn him from Roman 
follies, punish him if need be—” 

‘ ‘ Even to the point of death ? Does the law of Scot¬ 
land so run?” 

* 1 It must be kept secret from the Lord Warden! That 
is understood—” 

* ‘ Secret! This morning you most prudently told every 
soldier in the castle, and let Dick make a fool of you 
and save Douglas while you were talking.” 

“Have a care! Do you forget to whom you speak?” 

“Your pardon, my lord, but my love for you and for 
Ravenhurst makes me bold.” 

Sir Roger tapped his shoe on the fender without an¬ 
swering, but in a moment his sallow face brightened. 

“You, Godfrey, you have a great influence with the 
boy. Go to him to-morrow. Speak in that gentle way 
of yours. Say—” 

‘ 1 Influence! Do you forget that your rashness ruined 
my cunning tale? He knows now his mother's story 
was not a dream.” 

“Well, invent some new—” 

“Gordon knows now that I deceived him, I tell you. 
Your having that fireplace restored was a stupid folly, 
my lord—a blunder—” 

“To match your own of the early morning, my so- 
wise Godfrey! Who let the boy go into the wood alone ? 
The root of the fault is—” 

“What good ever comes of rehashing errors? We 
must hit on a new and better plan—” 



206 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


1 ‘Just what I was saying one moment ago. Do you go 
to him in that sweet way—” 

“My lord, Gordon has a brain; he will not be twice 
fooled by any man. Yet there is one way—” 

“And that?” 

“To-morrow we shall go to him—you and I—tell him 
his courage has won our hearts, we must respect a Faith 
that can make so young a lad so great a hero, give him 
full liberty to practice his religion—privately — 99 

“Of all the follies! Are you mad?” 

“Mend the folly, my good Sir Roger; mend the folly 
with this.” 

The tutor held up a vial which gleamed red in the 
candle light. 

“You mean?” 

“Oh, its action is very gentle, my lord. As the warm 
days come, a paleness, a weakness, just a slight malaria, 
yet in the autumn all the gentle folk of the countryside 
will come to the funeral of this promising child, and the 
mourning uncle—well, it will all be very sad—but, of 
course, the mourning uncle will be Earl of Ravenhurst.” 

High up in the wall, near a tiny hole in the carvings, 
a voice whispered. “Oh, you Godfrey, son of Bertrand!” 





CHAPTER NUMBER TWELVE 

THE PERILS OF ONE 
DARK NIGHT 







Chapter XII 

THE PERILS OF ONE DARK NIGHT 


OR an hour or more Gordon crawled 
on. The passage was straight for a 
time, then it dropped to a lower 
level and ran on again. Each room 
had its little spy-hole hidden in 
some carving. As he crept on, the 
levels became shorter and the stairs longer. He had 
not found a spying place for a long time. The dark¬ 
ness grew even more black. He could not see his hand 
before his face. The stones were cold, so cold and wet. 
Then came another stair, and down, down into the black¬ 
ness he went. 

] 

‘ ‘ It has to sink so low to get under the moat, that must 
be it,” and as he spoke he splashed into a puddle at the 
foot of the stair. Oh, how sweet that water tasted— 
muddy though it was! 

“Anyway, it is a drink,” he thought as he crawled 
on over the mossy stones of the level. “Now I must he 
going under the moat. That is why it is so wet and 
slimy. The end of the passage can not be far away, at 
least not much farther; for I have been crawling such a 
long time. When once I get outside, I shall find those 
friendly outlaws of the Cleuth. They will help me reach 
my mother. What if Uncle Roger does take the castle? 
—We could have a little farm—or a fishing boat like—” 

His right hand shot into space. He tried to grasp the 
stones, lost his balance, and fell—down—down—down 



209 



210 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


into never ending blackness. Something cold!—water!— 
and down—down—down again. He was rising. One 
hand shot out—then his head. 

Gordon drew a quick, deep breath, and floated as he 
had done many a time when some chance slip had 
plunged him into the old fishing pool beneath the alders, 
while he and Joel were playing in the Maryland woods. 

“ Thank God, it is water. I should have broken my 
neck if it had been stone. Well, the joke is on me! All 
day long I have been praying for a drop of water; now 
the good Lord has given me a drop into it, instead of 
a drop of it.” 

Then Gordon’s right arm glided out in a cautious over¬ 
hand stroke; but the water was cold, very cold, and his 
left leg felt queer—it would not follow suit. The lad 
struck out with all his might, and the struggle sent him 
under again—down, far down, till the roaring in his 
ears deafened him. Poor child, he had fasted in bitter 
pain since early morning and a boy’s strength can not 
last forever. 

As the body rose for the second time, one hand touched 
something floating and Gordon clutched as only the 
drowning can. A plank, short, water-soaked, and slimy 
—it could bear but little weight, yet that little was much 
to him. He drew it under his armpit and his lips were 
above water. Ah, how sweet is God’s own air! Gordon 
never knew before how much one breath is worth. 

Then the lad tried to paddle with his free hand, but 
the weight of his cramped legs was too great for so 
feeble a stroke. Still he kept on paddling. He must 
have been making headway without knowing it for, at 
last, his hand touched the mossy stones. He pulled the 
plank nearer. It seemed to be the wall of the passage. 


THE PERILS OF ONE DARK NIGHT 211 


He drew himself along beside it for a dozen strokes. 
The plank stopped abruptly. 

“I have struck the other wall, I guess. This must be 
a corner/’ he said, feeling about in the blackness. 

Floating along beside the plank, half resting on it, 
half drawing himself onward by the stones, Gordon tried 
to loosen the plank from the unseen snag which held it. 
A sharp push—too sharp—the slimy wood slid into the 
water again, but out of the boy’s hand. He groped in 
black air and blacker water. It was gone. Search was 
useless. Clinging to the stones, he dragged himself on¬ 
ward once more. 

“This can not be a corner,” he muttered a moment 
later. ‘ ‘ There is another side to it, just over there; but 
it doesn’t come over to make the point. Oh, I wish I 
could see for a minute, only one!” Suddenly his 
cramped, dragging feet struck something hard. Crying 
out with pain, he sank—not far. The rough stone floor 
was just beneath him. 

Half crawling, half dragging himself still, feeling in 
the blackness ahead before each onward movement, 
slowly, slowly he struggled on. 

“The water is become more shallow,” he muttered. 
“I am going uphill just a little bit now. This must be 
some other passage. I wonder where it ends. Oh, well, 
when I am outside, I can see Ben Ender and tell by it 
which way to go.” 

Hard work was warming his weary, cold body; and 
the cramp came out of his legs by and by, so that at last 
he could crawl on his hands and knees, and the water 
was soon behind him. 

This passage was crooked and narrow. After crossing 
that first rise which had shut out the water, it went 


212 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


winding, winding, always, with a constant downward 
slant. Gordon could touch the roof with ease, and the 
air, long imprisoned, had in it something which sucked 
his breath. He was sure he had crawled onward for an 
hour or more; but it is hard to tell how quickly time 
passes when a boy is weary, yet dares not rest. Then 
he cheered himself by planning. 

“It can not be much farther now. I wonder what that 
John is like. He must be a big man, or folks would not 
call him Muckle John. When we get mother, we shall 
have to go down into the dungeon. How shall we man¬ 
age that?” 

One hand dropped into space again, but this time he 
did not fall—he was a wiser lad now. Gordon groped 
about in the hole below him. 

“There is something a couple of feet lower—feels like 
a step—maybe it is only another stair—long way to go 
down without knowing what comes next; maybe it’s not 
a stair at all—end’s broken off and it wiggles—wonder 
if the lower steps are worse or better? Where can it 
be going anyway? I must be near the middle of the 
earth now—or, but I hate to climb down on such an 
unsteady thing, way down in that blackness!—What if 
I fall again?—But I must try—there is no other way. 
Could I pull myself back again if I can not go farther 
down?—Such slimy, slippery, old rocks!—How can a 
body hold to them?—Here’s one with an edge! Now 
God help me, I must go!” 

Slowly, cautiously Gordon lowered his weight on the 
dangerous step below, rested a moment, steadied him¬ 
self, dropped on his knees, then sat down, clinging all 
the while to the mossy stones of the wall. A breath of 
less foul air was coming from somewhere, and the lad 


THE PERILS OF ONE DARK NIGHT 213 


drew a deep draught. With one cautious toe he ex¬ 
plored the lower blackness. There was another step, 
wide and solid, near the wall but broken short off half¬ 
way across. The hoy slid down on it. He was gaining 
courage now. One more step was tried; it was better, 
and the dozen forming the rest of the stairs were broad 
and firm. Gordon stood at the foot of the stairs and felt 
about. The arch of the passage was just in front of 
him. It was low, perhaps even lower than the one from 
which he had come, and the stone floor was more deeply 
bedded in moss and slime. The air was somewhat bet¬ 
ter, and this encouraged him. Surely, God’s good out- 
of-doors must he drawing near. He crawled on eagerly, 
and had gone a dozen yards or more when one groping 
hand came upon a little pile of small, rough stones, 
scarcely larger than pebbles. He held one in his hand 
wondering. 

“These have no moss on them at all, and this one is 
dry,” he said aloud. 

As he spoke, something caught his foot. Pull as he 
would, he could not loosen it. The thing had clenched 
around his ankle and was holding him fast. * ‘ Snakes! ’ ’ 
he gasped, struggling wildly. Weak and weary, the lad 
could make but a small effort at best—the thing only 
tightened more and more. Catching up a stone, he 
reached back cautiously and struck a sharp blow. It 
yielded a moment but tightened again—a second blow— 
the slimy rock slipped and he touched—not a snake— 
hut fingers—a man’s fingers—rough-skinned, long and 
thin. A muffled voice whispered. 

“Who are you?” 

Gordon did not answer; he was searching for the 
stone lost a moment before. His left hand, groping along 


214 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


the floor, found nothing loose but the pile of dry peb¬ 
bles. His right hand, outstretched and trembling, waited 
to guard against the next attack of this unseen foe. The 
man made no further movement, yet he kept whispering, 
“Who are you?” 

Now Gordon’s left hand began to creep up the wall, 
vainly hoping to loosen some small rock; but the stones 
on this side of the passage were uncommonly large, 
square cut, and well set in mortar. A moment later the 
boy’s fingers touched the man’s arm. Gordon shivered 
—drew back—waited an instant, and felt again. The 
arm came through a small rough hole in the wall. 

The muffled voice repeated again. 

“Who are you, boy, who are you?” 

But the lad still kept silence. It was only a hand not 
a man with whom he must deal; so he tugged at those 
clenched fingers with all his weary might. 

“Speak out, child, and tell your name. You may as 
well obey now as later, for you can not go until you do,” 
the muffled voice insisted. 

Gordon had no breath to waste on words. He must 
unclasp those fingers—thin fingers, so thin the lad was 
almost sorry he had struck them. Something dampened 
the boy’s hands as he struggled; they were bleeding. 
Such fingers must be weak. Why couldn’t he loosen 
them? Poor child, his own strength was almost gone. 

“Are you of the old faith or the new?” 

“I am a Catholic, sir.” 

“No brass in the ringing of that coin, boy! Well 
spoken! Who are you ? Speak out, child, it is a friend 
that you have met in the darkness.” 

“If you were a friend, you would let me go—” 


THE PERILS OP ONE DARK NIGHT 215 


“Let you go on following Blind Duncan? Aye, that 
would be kindness!” 

“Duncan, sir, you are mistaken—or at least—that is 
—I have not seen him.” 

“Nor will you. When boys follow Blind Duncan, they 
go down a passage that winds, winds, winds. For a 
long, long way it has come downward; for a long, 
long way it will go upward, though never to the 
light of God’s day; and by and by the little boy will 
find again that in the air which sucks his breath; 
and, by and by, he will lay his head down on the moss 
and—” 

“You mean there is no way out of this passage!” 

“No way that you would find without—” 

“But there is a way?” 

“Yes, yet one so dangerous that it would be tempting 
God to send a child through it were you not in need—” 

“In need?” 

“Would you be here if you were not in need—aye, 
and sore need?—But answer my questions now, lad. 
Afterwards I shall give you what help I can. First, the 
old question, who are you ? ’ 9 

“I do not like to talk to strangers, sir. What is your 
own name, please?” 

“I told you, ‘A friend’; but come, child, you waste 
time—” 

‘ ‘ Friend!—A mean sort of friend you are! ’ ’ 

Gordon had never ceased tugging at those clenched 
fingers; now, disappointment and weariness made him 
wink back the tears. 

“A friend would not torment a boy. Why should I 
think that you are one ? I do not know you. ’ ’ 

“It would indeed be a very wicked man that would 


216 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


not befriend a little boy lost in the wicked, old Blind 
Duncan passage. Let it pass at that; now tell—” 

“You are mean enough, that’s one thing I know, for 
there is a way to get out and you won’t tell me. You 
are a big coward, too; for you try to make me talk when 
I ought not to, just because I am young and you have 
the best of me. You won’t give your own name—” 

“Well, now,” the muffled voice grew patient, “you 
think me very mean—no great wonder. So, indeed, 
would I be both a knave and a coward if I should force 
a child to speak when there is no need of it, or make bad 
use of knowledge thus gained; but, lad, though for grave 
reasons I do not think it wise to give you my name, I 
shall give you my word—not even an enemy ever called 
my honor in question—I give you my word no harm shall 
come from what you may say—perhaps, even good; 
trouble is at your own door, my boy, or you would not 
be wandering alone in such a place as this.” 

Gordon found a strange longing to trust this man 
rising up in his heart; yet, while he still doubted, he 
dared not do so; then the firm, gentle voice spoke again: 

“Come, child.” 

“Well, I guess I have to.” 

“In truth you must.” 

“I am the Gordon.” 

“That you are not.” 

“Sir!” 

“It is the chieftain alone who is called the Gordon. 
You are not yet Earl of Ravenhurst, my lad, but you are 
a Gordon—a small splinter of the Lang-Sword.” The 
deep voice grew strangely tender. “You are he that was 
born ten years ago on the feast of our Lady in Harvest. ’ ’ 

“Sir!—but how in the world did you learn that?” 


THE PERILS OF ONE DARK NIGHT 217 


The muffled tones sank lower. Gordon could scarcely 
hear the words. 

“All day long there has been that old foreboding 
thought: ‘The boy is in danger’; all day long down 
here in my dungeon I have prayed; and now, sweet 
Mother, you bring him to me.” Then the voice broke 
sharply, ‘ ‘ And—and Margaret— your mother, lad, your 
mother—did—did she live or die?” 

“Sir, why, sir, she is alive—I mean I hope—” 

“Hope?—you hope? Why don’t you know?” The 
man’s hand gripped Gordon’s ankle till the pain shot 
through him keen and sickening. “Answer me!” 
Agony, not anger, was in the muffled voice. 

“Sir, oh, I can’t talk of these things to a stranger! 
Who are you ? Why do you want to know so much about 
me and my mother? You are hurting my ankle; it’s 
sore. ’ ’ 

£ ‘ Poor little one! There, it does not pain now, does 
it? No, surely, you could not speak of these things to a 
stranger; but you need fear no longer. I have the best 
reason in this wide world for asking about you and your 
mother, my son,—I am your father, James of Gordon.” 

“My father!” 

Gordon caught that thin hand and kissed the damp 
spots passionately. “My own father! Oh, why do I 
always get things wrong ? I hit you and made you bleed 
and I wouldn’t do what you wanted—listened to God¬ 
frey, though, and I never helped her at all—” 

“Child, child, you are not crying? You struck only 
to defend yourself. There is no pain, child, none what¬ 
ever; but if there were, the joy in my heart would drown 
so small a thing. I know now this son of mine will never 
make my heart bleed. That is the pain a father dreads, 


218 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


my boy. 0 child, if you knew the joy it gives me to learn 
it is my own son’s voice that rang out so true and clear 
as you told me your faith, here in the face of darkness 
and danger. Such joy is worth these long years of suf¬ 
fering. The Blessed Mother of God has watched over 
you. She never fails those who put their trust in her. 
But your mother, son, where is she? Tell me what you 
know or fear about her. What new harm has Bertrand’s 
spawn done? Your own heart seems full to bursting. 
Come, pour out all this trouble, son.” 

“I don’t know. Betsy thinks she is down in the 
dungeon; and Uncle Stephen—” 

“Uncle Stephen? You have spoken with him? What 
did he say ? ’ ’ 

“He thought mother must be in some part of the 
castle—perhaps, in the north tower.” 

“Probably; that is the prison tower. But what rea¬ 
son did he give?” 

“Uncle said mother broke some law or other when she 
told me about you and spoke of the Faith—” 

“And Roger took full advantage of his legal right as 
guardian—no doubting. God help me if evil has come 
to Margaret! But speak on, my son; tell me all you 
know. ’ ’ 

Then the whole tale was told for the second time that 
day. There is a blessing in confession. Telling the story 
to Stephen had brought the boy near to his God; and 
now, when it had been all poured out again, peace filled 
his soul, though he still sobbed in the darkness clinging 
to his father’s hand. 

“Well, son, if mother be in heaven, she knows all this; 
or if, God willing, she still live and we find her once 
more, you shall tell her the story just as you have told 



THE PERILS OF ONE DARK NIGHT 219 


it to me and to that saint of God, Stephen; then do as 
she will—forget it.” 

“And mother will forgive me? You think she will? 
Mother said that first night she wouldn’t have owned 
me if—” 

“Forgive you, child! She will he thankful her son 
has passed through the claws of Godfrey Bertrandson, 
yet received so slight a wound.” 

“Could we begin to hunt for her right now, father?” 

“That is impossible, child, for this hole is too small 
for me to crawl through as yet.” 

“Maybe the passage you are in meets this one far¬ 
ther on.” 

“I am not in a passage, son. I am lying on my face 
in a tunnel that I am making. My feet are a yard or 
two from my home, cell eight, third level of Fire-the- 
Braes’ dungeon beneath the north tower.” 

“You in a cell of this castle!” 

“That I am.” 

“Mother told me the king’s dragoons took you years 
and years ago!” 

“They did, but let me go after six months of rack 
and dungeon. I staggered home to old Ravenhurst one 
rain-swept night. Godfrey found me, too far weakened 
to offer resistance. He was for giving me a merciful 
sword thrust but my gentle brother could not quite 
bring himself to risk murder. Instead, Roger gave me 
this pleasant chamber for the rest of my days. He told 
me about you—said you were a fine healthy babe, and 
that he would teach you to curse the very name of Catho¬ 
lic. Ravenhurst should rise at the cost of the old cause. 
Gold was far better than martyr’s blood. Fools were all 
those that put trust in God’s grace above the favor of 


220 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


kings. Yet, my son was reared in the old faith. Man 
can make his little plans; it is God that rules. Of your 
mother Roger would tell me nothing. I had left her at 
the point of death; and the longing to know which way 
the tide of life had turned came near to—ah, well, God’s 
hand has been over us. His ways are not our ways. ’ ’ 

“But you—you have been alone here in a dungeon 
cell—since—ever since I was a baby? What did you 
do? How could you—” 

“When a man faces life imprisonment in a doorless 
pit thirty feet below the land where God’s sun is shin¬ 
ing, he has the choice of three things which he may do: 
despair, and become a sullen madman; brood over his 
wrongs, and become a fiend; or find some work, some 
business which will save both soul and reason.” 

“But what work—what business? Oh, I know, you 
made this tunnel to get out. But that wouldn’t take 
ten years.” 

“Would it not? Grinding out a hole through blocks 
of granite with one small diamond taken from a ring 
and fastened to a rusted spur—such work is swiftly 
done!” 

“But you have been here in this dark night, you— 
my own father—here alone through all the jolly days 
when I used to play with Joel!” 

“Joel?—ah, that Maryland farmer—Shannon’s son— 
jolly days.” Sir James paused, he seemed thinking. 
“Perhaps, my son, this sorrow may have taught you 
some things. ‘Jolly days’ you called your old life; 
perhaps you have learned that there are worse fates than 
the hard work of a farmer’s home.” 

“Worse fates! I wouldn’t give one log of Daddy 
Shannon’s cabin for all of Castle Ravenhurst! Oh, 


THE PERILS OP ONE DARK NIGHT 221 


father! I didn’t mean that to hurt! Of course, if you 
and mother had been here all winter! But folk like 
Uncle Roger don’t make home. It’s the old log house 
that’s in my mind whenever I say ‘home!’ ” 

“And you would be willing to go hack to that simple 
life again?” 

“Would I be willing to go back to Shannon’s? Do 
you mean that there is any possible way ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, there is; still one great sacrifice will he neces¬ 
sary if ever we go to Maryland.” 

“What, father?” 

“The coronet of Ravenhurst must be given up for¬ 
ever. Long titles and log cabins do not go together.” 

“Oh, is that all? I thought you meant I must go 
without you or mother.” 

“So? Who taught you that lesson?” 

“Lesson? What lesson? Godfrey has been teaching 
me Latin and things—but—” 

“No, this is not one of Bertrandson’s tasks. Sir 
Angus strove to write it in my mind, or rather in my 
heart; but I learned it, my son, on the day when my 
treason was proved—or declared to be!—before the 
peers of Scotland. I knew the forfeiture had passed! 
I saw the escutcheon of Gordon riven! Then I learned 
it; and here in this dungeon, when through the black 
hours I knelt alone with God who had decreed this sor¬ 
row for me. Here, imprisoned by my own brother, un¬ 
der my own strong battle tower, a branded outlaw whom 
it were a favor to Scotland to kill, spurned from the 
presence of Scotland’s king, here I found the presence 
chamber of the King of kings. Here I learned the les¬ 
son : God, and the upright life which pleases God, these 
are great in worth; and all the rest is nothing.” 


222 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“I do not know just what you mean, but anything 
about goodness I ever knew, Daddy and Mammy Shan¬ 
non taught me. Not that they ever said so much. Oh, 
I don’t know—they just were solid good inside them¬ 
selves, you see. Don’t worry about the escutcheon any 
more, father. Uncle Roger—well, he told me a lot about 
it, but he used such big words I understood only that he 
had straightened everything between the Gordons and 
the king. The lands, most of them, are ours again; hut, 
father, Uncle Roger paid for it with his soul. Nothing 
is worth buying that costs so much, Daddy Shannon 
said so.” 

‘ ‘ So ho! My good brother has been letting it appear 
that I am dead—he could not have succeeded with that 
plan otherwise. Very well, when we go to Maryland it 
will be to his interest to let us remain there in peace— 
provided he find no means to kill us before we set sail. 
Such a course would let him slip into the earldom with 
small trouble. Poor weakling, God pity him! Now, 
my son, thank God for all the good this Shannon has 
done you. Keep his teachings in your heart. Should 
this affair go ill with me, go back to him if you will. 
Now, we must face the present. Roger is or rather soon 
will be hunting for you. It would take a month to grind 
this hole large enough to be crawled through, but a 
strong man with a pick or a crowbar could take out this 
block of stone in less than an hour. You were seeking 
John-o’-the-Cleuth when I caught you, and he is the 
man we need.” 

4 'But, father, how shall I ever find Muckle John-o’- 
the-Cleuth? I have been seeking him so long it seems 
like always.” 

"Small wonder you think so, son! You have traveled 


THE PERILS OP ONE DARK NIGHT 223 


on your knees around Castle Ravenhurst just six times 
and were on the point of beginning your seventh trip. 
Margaret had sent you by the fireplace passage safe and 
direct without cross tunnels or danger; but it can not 
have been repaired these ten years since the floor above 
the cistern had rotted through. God's angels must have 
guarded you—a full twenty feet you fell. If the best 
passage be in such a condition, what of the worst? Yet 
through the worst I must send you—the wicked death¬ 
trap of the Blind Duncan. It was pitted to catch men; 
God pity the child that should fall into one of those 
holes. They are ten feet deep with mossy sides and 
paved with pointed spikes. Even now you are worn 
weary till your brain must be dizzy. How long have 
you been without food?” 

“I do not know. How long is it since I had my sup¬ 
per yesterday ? But never mind, father, the hunger did 
hurt all day but I have not half so much pain now.” 

“No, you are living on the excitement and the good red 
blood in your veins. That sort of strength does well 
while it lasts, but it comes to a short end sometimes, my 
child. There is a small crust in my cell. I had thought 
of giving it to you before, yet did not, for it is over 
badly molded! Still there is some strength in the 
bread .’ 1 

Gordon heard the stealthy movement of the earl crawl¬ 
ing backward through the narrow tunnel. In a moment 
Sir James returned, and the boy reached eagerly for the 
pitiful fare. Then the earl spoke again, his voice low 
and clear. 

“Begin at the stairs. Count along the floor thirty 
blocks of stone, changing sides after every fifth stone. 
At this point scrape off the moss to your right where 


224 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


the roof joins the wall. You will find there a ring. 
Twist it sharply three times. It will open a door into 
the upper passage. Follow this. It is the main tunnel, 
which you would have found hours ago but for that hole 
in the floor above the cistern. Follow the large passage 
to its end in the wood near Ben Ender. Go north to 
the frith, east along the shore to a fishing village and 
ask for Muckle John-o’-the-Cleuth. Tell him to come 
with what men and weapons he can muster. Now re¬ 
peat the instructions.’’ 

The boy did so once, and then again. 

“Another thing,” resumed the father, “leave small 
patches of your clothing along the tunnel to mark the 
returning way. Now go, and may God our Father keep 
His hand above my boy.” 

The lad’s back ached from stooping; his head, from 
hunger and weariness. Often one trembling hand slid 
into some black abyss; and he would cling to the mossy 
stones, quivering, dreading the pit below, dreading more 
that which might be within it—that which might be left 
of those who had tried before to creep through the death¬ 
trap, “Blind Duncan.” Often the white lips whispered, 
“If father were here I would not fear; but God our 
Father has His hand over me. He will not let me fall.” 

Little by little the slime on the floor gave place to moss 
and damp stone. Air—God’s sweet air—was floating 
from somewhere, and with it came a dim gray in the 
blackness. He could see the floor and the walls at last; 
and before him, only a few yards away, an arch outlined 
against a stronger light. Eagerly he hurried to it and 
felt along the keystone—there was the ring—the main 
tunnel at last! 

This was the main passage—oh, such a long main pas- 


THE PERILS OF ONE DARK NIGHT 225 


age! Did it run beneath all the fields and meadows from 
Rock Ravenhurst to Ben Ender? On and on the lad 
crawled; for even here, there was not space to stand 
erect. The dull ache of weariness drove all reckoning of 
time from his thoughts. One thing only he knew clearly; 
mother and father were there in the dungeon; he must 
seek John-o’-the-Cleuth. 

Something was shining near him. Gordon leaned 
against the wall shading his eyes with his hand—light— 
real light from God’s own out-of-doors—a branch across 
that light swinging, swaying in the breeze—buds full of 
life, soon to burst into leaf. A moment more—the boy 
was standing in the clear moonlight. 

Gordon stretched every muscle in his tired body, then 
shivered. The north March wind pierced his damp cloth¬ 
ing; it stiffened as he hurried on. The last year’s leaves 
about his feet were white, glistening—the pools, frozen. 
The lad tried to run, beating his arms wildly; but the cold 
could not be thrown off so easily. Suddenly he stopped. 
Through the moonlight came a long drawn whoo-hoo- 
ah-oo-o! 

“Wolves! God help me!—and near!—coming this 
way! ’ ’ Gordon dashed up the bank. ‘ ‘ There’s a big oak 
at the top of the hill!—Can I reach it ? ” 

The lad ran as if he were not weary—ran as he had 
never run before; but down in the glen, three lean, gray 
bodies leaped. They had seen him. 

He reached the tree; the wolves still a few leaps be¬ 
hind. Gordon caught a branch. It slipped from his 
numb fingers, and he fell. They were almost upon him. 
He caught the branch again—climbed it—from that to 
another. They were springing at him with wild leaps. 
He could not reach the swaying branch above. Higher, 


226 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


still higher leaped the lean, gray forms, their white teeth 
gleaming in the moonlight. Then a gust of wind swayed 
the branch above down toward him. He clutched it— 
drew himself upon it, crawled back to the trunk, and 
clung to the oak. Safe! No wolf could jump so high. 

They would go away in the morning, and it must be 
almost dawn; so the lad thought. Hours seemed to pass; 
yet no hint spoke of coming day. The wind blew fiercely 
through the wood—the oak wood on the northern slope 
of Ben Ender. Those small, numb hands found it hard 
to hold the lad in the tree crotch. The frozen clothing 
rattled when he moved; and a quick, sharp pain shot 
through him with every breath. Down below the gray 
wolves waited—their red eyes glowing in the darkness— 
snapping at him now and then with long white teeth. 
Never a dawn for him; Gordon could hold out no longer. 
Falling?—No—the swaying body straightened again— 
clutched the oak as he had before. 

At last the dawn did come—a faint flush far off on 
the waters of the frith. But the boy did not see it; he 
was wondering why the blackness about him whirled 
round and round; why the three pairs of red eyes were 
dancing—dancing and whirling round and round. 

Two arrows hissed from the bushes. Two gray 
watchers leaped high in the air and fell backward with 
guttural howls. Another shaft flashed through the dawn¬ 
ing light, and the third fell across his mates, kicking 
wildly. 

“Well shot, Muckle John!” A man sprang from 
the bushes. “Three good wolf pelts afore sunup.” 

“They had something treed. Quick, Donald! Hold 
the end of my plaid! ’Tis a bairn, and it’s falling. 
There—steady—easy like! Na lay him doon!” 


THE PERILS OF ONE DARK NIGHT 227 


“ ’Tis the little laird Gordon!” 

“Na doot o’ that. But there is na time for talking. 
Wrap the plaid mare tight.” 

“Take mine as well, John. Mayhap he’ll warm up 
a wee bit.” 

“Wad ye see the welts on his face! An’ his shoulder! 
God’s mercy on the bairn! What a sight! ’ ’ 

“Clad in rags, muddy, an’ frozen, an’ a’ that! What 
can he the meaning o’ it, John?” 

“ ’Tis the work o’ yon devil in the castle. But we ha’ 
talked o’er long! I’ll carry him home, Donald. Ye can 
see to the pelts. ’ ’ 




CHAPTER NUMBER THIRTEEN 
MUCKLE JOHN-O’-THE-CLEUTH 








I 





















A 



Chapter XIII 

MUCKLE JOHN-O’-THE-CLEUTH 


AWN HAS come at last; a red light 
is dancing far out on the water of 
the frith; the clouds are all afire; 
but I am looking through a door¬ 
way ; I wonder why. ’ ’ 

Gordon would have raised his 
head, but it was heavy; something seemed to weigh it 
down. He raised his hand to discover what that some¬ 
thing might he, but stared at the hand instead—long 
fingers, thin and white, blue veins winding in and out 
among the bones, a freckle here and there. These were 
old friends, but the hand was not his. It must belong 
to a sick girl. Some one was speaking in a low voice. 
Who could it he? Turning his head was too weary a 
business; but the deep blue Douglas eyes slowly followed 
the sound. A seaman of Clan Gordon stood near the 
hearth—a rough-looking fellow with a scarred face and 
a wild brush of black, curled beard. The woman beside 
him seemed worn-out and worried. Gordon pitied her. 
She must have heard the lad stir, for she turned quickly. 

‘ 4 Look, John, his eyes are no’ wild the day. Have a 
wee bit o’ soup, my lamb, an’ sleep again.’’ 

“No, madam.” Why did his voice sound so faint 
and hollow? The woman leaned forward to catch the 
words. “No, madam, I thank you—but I can not stay 
to eat. If you would unfasten—the thing—the thing— 
that is holding my head down.” 



231 



232 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Bless the heart o’ my baimie, nothing’s there but a 
damp cloth. Still if the weight troubles ye—” 

“Oh, it does not trouble me, madam. But you see it 
is daylight—daylight now. I must seek John—Muckle 
J ohn-o ’-the-Cleuth. ’ ’ 

“An’ what would my little laird have me do?” 

The great seaman bent over to hear the gasping 
words but the boy’s eyes suddenly grew round and 
bright. The weakness vanished for an instant; he 
sprang up, staring at a gentle collie that had just 
stepped into the doorway; he snatched the bowl from 
the woman’s hand and threw it. The dog ran out, 
yelping. 

“I hit him! That’s one wolf done for! But there are 
so many—eyes—red eyes going round and round in the 
darkness—and the dawn—will never—never—come. I 
can’t—hold on—any—” 

The lad sank back on the pillow. The voice mumbled 
a moment more and trailed into silence. Even the burn¬ 
ing blast of fever could put but little strength into the 
worn-out frame. 

“There he goes again,” moaned the woman. “An’ I 
was so hopin’ he’d wake wi’ his wits. His eyes were a 
bit steady at the first.” 

“You’re worn-out wi’ watchin’, Jean. Go, lie down a 
bit yoursel’.” 

‘ ‘ An ’ leave him now! Are ye gone stark mad ? ’ ’ 

“But you’re droppin’ for need o’ sleep, woman. Ye 
must, Jean, ye must.” 

“There’s no use pratin’. I canno’ leave the bairn an’ 
I will no’. How could I face Lady Margaret? God’s 
own angel she ha’ been to us—an’ how could I face her 
if I did no’ do my best to save the wee chief? Little 



MUCKLE JOHN-O ’-THE-CLEUTH 


233 


enough I ken—o’ the what an’ the when o’ given yerbs 
an’ potion. I can do a’ I can—that’s a’. I’ll no’ fail 
Lady Margaret in her hour o ’ need! ’ ’ 

“But, Jean, yer no’ made o’ iron, woman! You 
canno’ stand it much longer!” 

“Much longer! It’ll no’ he much longer. If I dinna 
get yon fever down, there will be no little tongue to 
rave this evenin’.” 

“Dinna, Jeanie, dinna say that! The wee lairdie 
canno’'die! He must no’ die! A’ the hope o’ Clan 
Gordon is in him! ’ ’ 

“John! John! ye must no’ be flyin’ in the face o’ 
the Almighty, man ! It’s His to say ‘ live ’ or 1 die. ’ ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I did no ’ mean it that way, lass—God forgive me an ’ 
His will be done! But the chief is dead these ten long 
years an’ if the boy die, Sir Roger will be earl. What 
can the Gordons hope fra’ yon weakling or any sprig 
o’ his?” 

“God kens best, John. Perhaps the bairn would only 
suffer as did Sir Angus, as did our own Sir Jamie.” 

“Ye are right, lass, ye are right. A brave heart 
canno’ do a’. The lad might lead us in one last battle 
an’ then gang to the block or worse. God kens best. 
Poor bairn, he has suffered aboon measure now. If he 
is to die, God grant me one thing: let the boy ha’ his 
wits long eno’ to tell me who ’twas that beat him. An’ 
I hang for it, I’ll give the coward cur the same—blow 
for blow!—But, he’s sleepin’ now, Jeanie. Can ye no’ 
trust me to care for him a wee bit, whiles ye go an’ 
rest ? ’ ’ 

“Will ye give me yer word to call me if he gets wild 
like or sinks o ’er low ? ’ ’ 

“Aye, an’ I will, lass. I dinna ken wha’s to be done 


234 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


when he’s bad off—but whiles he’s sleepin’, sure ye can 
trust me.” 

It is wonderful how gentle some great rough men can 
be. Muckle John sat by the child all day, for both the 
lad and Jean slept on and on. Now and then he sponged 
the hot body, gently, so gently, the boy did not stir. 
Two or three times the seaman roused the sleeper and 
gave him a drink of soup; the half-open, blue eyes 
seemed to thank him and then closed again. Hour after 
hour Muckle John sat watching the pinched face, his 
beads slowly gliding through his fingers, praying from 
the depths of his simple fervent heart for his little chief¬ 
tain and for Clan Gordon. 

The sun was setting—long shafts of light glinting 
along the heather, under the oak branch without the 
door, and in through the low window till they danced 
over the sleeper— and the Douglas eyes opened clear 
and quiet. 

“Where am I, kind fisherman? I should not be lying 
in bed. See, the dawn has come at last! I came seeking 
Muckle John-o’-the-Cleuth. Can you—” 

“Aye, little laird, here be Muckle John, so dinna be 
worritin’, just drink a wee bit o’ soup and sleep again.” 

“No, no, if I have found you, we must go. My 
father told me—” 

“Alackaday! There he goes again. I thought he had 
his wits, but no—an’ the earl dead these ten years!” 

“That is what I thought, but it is not so. You see, 
Muckle John, mother told me if ever I should be in 
trouble to go to the outlaws on Ben Ender. She said 
there was one man, the best of them all—the grandson of 
Tam the armorer—Muckle John-o’-the-Cleuth.” 

“Did Lady Margaret say that? A proud man am I 


MUCKLE JOHN-O’-THE-CLEUTH 


235 


this day. I’d rather ha’ her praise than a’ the words o’ 
a’ the queens o’ Scotland. In trouble was you, little 
laird, an ’ to us ye came, safe ye are; but dinna talk o ’er 
much now an’ rest again.’’ 

“Rest? No! The dawn is here.” 

‘ * But lairdie, one thing I’d ask—who was it, beat ye ? ” 

“Sir Roger. We don’t get on together. But that’s 
over now and we must go—” 

“Na, my bonny, tell me o’ that an’ then close yer 
eyes. ’ ’ 

“No, John, no! We are losing time. My father—” 

“Is in heaven nigh the great White Throne wi’ Sir 
Angus an’—” 

“No, no! Father is in the dungeon and he told 
me to—” 

“Dinna be worritin’ wee lairdie.” The seaman ten¬ 
derly moistened the child’s brow. “There now—there 
my bairnie—ye be safe—an’ a’ is well.” 

“But my father hade me—” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Why he told me himself when I saw him a couple of 
hours ago in the dungeon.” 

“Saw him?” 

“Well, it’s just the same. It was dark down there, 
but I was holding his hand all the time we—” 

“Has he wits or no’? His eyes are clear.” 

“Has my father wits? Why, Muckle John!” 

“Na’, na’, darlin’, ye did no’ catch the drift o’ my 
words. Where did you see Sir Jamie?” 

“It was when I was crawling through the passage. 
I found him down near the dungeon. He got away from 
the king’s dragoons—and Uncle Roger put him there— 
where the light of God’s day never comes. Father has 


236 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


been there since I was a baby—and I think mother—is 
there. ’ ’ 

Talking was weary business. Gordon was gasping now 
as he spoke. Muckle John’s face was gentle, his voice 
low as a mother crooning a lullaby; but in his eyes was 
the coming fury, still controlled, like the sea along the 
Highland coast slowly rolling its oily billows just before 
the breaking of the storm. Know—he must know; but 
should excitement raise the fever in that worn and gasp¬ 
ing form, the tiny thread of life might snap. 

“Lady Margaret, did ye say, my bairnie? Dinna fear, 
we’ll go for her and for Sir Jamie. Where be they?” 

“In the dungeon. Father is way down—under—the 
north tower. Mother—I don’t know—just where.” 

“Did the chief give any orders?” 

“He bade me tell you—bring the outlaws—a pick— 
a crowbar—an axe—to dig out the hole—so he—can 
crawl—through. ’ ’ 

“Dinna’ try to talk, darlin’, when the breath chokes 
ye sa sair. Wait a wee bit, then tell me by which pas¬ 
sage ye came.” 

“No—we must not—lose time. I left—patches—of 
my kilt—along the way. You just—follow me. I’ll 
lead—you—straight—back to him.” 

“There, there, little lairdie, dinna worrit yersel’. Ye 
need no’ gang back. A’ the lads o’ the Cleuth will be 
roond auld Ben Ender’s foot afore the red ha’ left yon 
little cloud.” 

“But—I must—I must—lead—you through—that— 
pitted—place.” Gordon tried to rise, but his head 
would not leave the pillow. “I can’t—get it—up— 
John. Why can’t—I—get it—up?” he whispered, sink¬ 
ing back with a pitiful gasp. 




MUCKLE JOHN-O ’-THE-CLEUTH 


237 


“Dinna be wolTitin , , bairnie. Ye are a wee bit weak 
the day, trapesing through the mud an’ a’ that. Just 
be saying to yerself, ‘Muckle John will care for them a’, 
an’ I can be restin’.’ ” 

Gordon looked up at the fisherman with a faint smile. 
This talking was hard work. It was good to rest his 
burden on such broad shoulders. Then through half- 
closed lids he watched the burly giant tip-toeing across 
the room, whispering a few words to Jeanie, coming 
back to get his sword from the wall, and passing out into 
the yellow light by the door. 

“Dawn has come—and Muckle John—big Muckle 
John—can do it. ’ ’ Then the white lids closed and Gor¬ 
don slept. 

As the fisherman passed from the shadow of the oak 
beside his cabin, a dozen men sprang from the doors of 
huts half-hidden amid heather. 

‘‘ Hist! ’ ’ growled Muckle J ohn. ‘ ‘ News fra ’ the chief! 
Take the Ben Ender path for Rock Ravenhurst while 
I’m tellin’ ye! No time’s to spare. Wat, ye an’ Will 
raise the rest o ’ the lads an ’ follow! Hist! Step on the 
grass, yon craunchin’ foot may wake him!” 

“How is the chief?” 

“He woke wi’ his wits, towards sunset. Jean says the 
turn be past. There’s hope. But we canno’ stand 
pratin’. Sir Jamie is livin’—shut up these ten years 
beneath the tower.” 

“Who—” 

“Who? Can ye ask? Roger an’ yon devil Bertrand- 
son, they be at the bottom o’ it. ’Twas the weakling 
that beat the bairn! God give me strength o’ arm till I 
give him the same! An’ I will—blow for blow—an’ 
worse! There’s a galley whip—yon deep-sea man, Me- 


238 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Murdoc, gived it to me—for to see how poor Peter 
would be used if he was sent to the oars. 

“Well, eno’ o’ that. That’ knouted lash is in the chest 
by my berth in the cabin o’ the Nancy Kitts. Lang 
Andrew, go down to the lugger an’ bring it. Roger 
Gordon’ll ken the taste o’ his ain potions an’ I hang 
for it!” 

A low, thundering growl echoed from the men. 

“Sir Roger!” 

“Some o’ his devil work!” 

“His own brother!” 

“The bairn’s his brother’s son!” 

“What’s blood to a coward?” 

“Blood? Roger’s no’ o’ Gordon blood, he’s a devil 
changeling—a weakling o’ the line o’ Lang-Sword! 
Na!” 

“That’s no’ a’! Lady Margaret’s there!” 

“Our lady!” 

“Aye!” 

“Lady Margaret! She that’s been like one o’ God’s 
angels for goodness!” 

“Many a comfortin’ bit she ha’ sent to my auld 
granny! ’ ’ 

“An’ my Ben—wi’ his crooked back. Knitted clothes 
for him wi’ her own fingers!” 

“If Roger ha’ harmed her!” 

“Harm! Would ye look at the bairn an’ speak o’ 
harm? Bleedin’ woonds that will no’ heal!” 

“Roger’ll see the bottom o’ hell afore sunup—” 

“An’ Bertrandson wi’ him!” 

“Aye! Give them a fling fra’ the auld tower that 
o’erlooks the frith!” 

“Good an’ weel, but mind I ha’ my turn first! 


MUCKLE JOHN-O ’-THE-CLEUTH 


239 


Roger ’ll ha’ his due this night or I’m no Muckle John- 
o’-the-Cleuth. Come! Spare waggin’ o’ tongues; ’tis 
swords should be waggin’! The lad’s been lyin’ on my 
cot these ten days, an’ the chief must think we ha’ 
lagged. Forward! ’ ’ 

Turning as he spoke, he left the road for the path 
across the foothills of Ben Ender, followed by the rem¬ 
nant of the outlawed Gordon clan. A remnant indeed! 
At their head, the grandson of Tam the armorer, Muckle 
John-o’-the-Cleuth; on his scarred, storm-beaten face a 
look, black, seething, furious; at his back, his six bold 
sons that manned the Nancy Kitts. Then came one whose 
step was even, sharp, and firm—the slant rays glittered 
on his arms as if they touched the bosom of the frith— 
a veteran trained in war, not a mere volunteer, and 
every inch a soldier still—although the hair beneath the 
battered, old-time helmet was white as the snow on Ben 
Ender; the last of all the clansmen who followed Sir 
Angus, years and years before. Behind him came a 
dozen fellows, rough and rude, with shaggy beards and 
matted hair, who carried their spears as shepherds do 
their crooks. Some were gray and bent; some young 
and tall; and one, a boy panting in his struggle to keep 
pace with the men, the scabbard of his father’s sword 
trailing behind him on the ground. The remnant of an 
outlawed clan coming at the call of their outlawed earl! 

The red died from the sky. They hurried on through 
the gathering darkness. Ben Ender’s huge bulk loomed 
nearer. The oaks tossed and rustled in the wind. Then 
a voice whispered, “We be nigh where the passage opens. 
Here’s a dead pine; do you want the dry wood for 
torches, Muckle John?” 

“Na. We’ll ha’ trouble eno’ to breathe wi’out smoke. 


240 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


I ha’ candles, if they be needed. Each man keep in 
touch o’ the ain in front o’ him. Put little Dave in the 
midst, lest ye lose him. If ye find a bit o’ plaid, let me 
know.” 

Muckle John drew aside the branch which overhung 
the hole and crept in. They had been crawling through 
the tunnel for fully half an hour when a whisper passed 
from man to man, “Any patch o’ plaid yet?” 

And the answer drifted back, “No.” 

Muckle John halted. “Donald,” he whispered. 

“Aye, sir!” came the old soldier’s voice. 

“Ha’ ye ever been through the passage?” 

“Aye, sir, one time—but it was years agone.” 

“There be no signs o’ plaid yet an’ here be three 
openings.” 

“Mayhap some one’s been afore us. There should be 
signs cut in the arches. Aye—here it be—one cross— 
one cross—I mind now—that ends on the south front 
nigh the room o’ the great folk.” 

“That will na’ do; we’d ha’ to cross the whole hoose.” 

Muckle John struck his flint and steel; there was a 
point of light in the darkness, then a tiny flame. Don¬ 
ald ran his fingers along the next arch. 

“One cross, twa—twa crosses—twa crosses—I dinna 
mind a passage o’ twa crosses. Weel, here be the last— 
one—twa—thra—thra crosses. Na! na! I ha’ mind eno’ 
o’ thra crosses. ’Tis the Blind Duncan that ha’ thra 
crosses. Thanks be to our Lady I minded it in time. 
Some one or a’ o’ us would ha’ fallen in the pits.” 

“Pits? The wee laird spoke o’ guiding us through 
a pitted—” 

“Na, Muckle John! Do ye ken what yon blind death¬ 
trap be?” 


MUCKLE JOHN-O’-THE-CLEUTH 


241 


‘‘But the bairn said his father bade—” 

“The wee head is yet addled wi’ fever. Na doot Sir 
Jamie told him to keep out o’ it. The earl would no’ 
ha’ sent him through, unless he’d given his wits the 
go-by.” 

“Or, unless the need — 99 

“Weel, an’ if the need be great, we could try it; but 
’tis mair to my mind to go by the twa cross way. Still 
ye be leader, Muckle John, an’ if ye say — 99 

“Na, na, Donald, we’ll gang by the twa crosses first, 
an ’ see where we come out. ’ ’ 

The fisherman blew out the candle and they crawled 
on again. Perhaps it was an hour afterward that 
Muckle John’s voice came in a whisper. “Hist! light 
ahead. Never a sound that a rat could hear! Dirks 
ready! ’ ’ 

The light drew near, a bar of yellow darting out from 
the side wall. They could see the cobwebs across the 
passage, and the spiders. An angry voice sounded 
sharply through the silence. The fisherman crept on¬ 
ward stealthily till his eye was at the opening. Godfrey 
stood a few feet from him and there was a girl with ter¬ 
ror in her eyes. 

“I tell you, Master Godfrey,” she was pleading, “I 
tell you I do not know.” 

“How much longer do you intend to keep on lying?” 
growled the man stepping forward. “Do you think you 
can deceive me ? The boy did not fly out the window, or 
crawl out the keyhole. That door was opened. You did 
it or you know who did. Mind, I saw you whispering 
through the keyhole.” 

“Sir, I did but say—” 


242 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Is it fifty times you’ve told that lie or a hundred? 
Tell the truth or—” 

“Master Godfrey, oh, I have, sir! Over and over so 
many times! If you would only believe—” 

“All the rubbish I hear? No, I am not easily de¬ 
ceived, Betsy, and you will tell me what you know—- 
or—” 

“But I don’t know anything, sir, nothing at all, sir. 
Please let me go back to my work, Master Godfrey. My 
mother has been without my wages since Saturday. She 
is old and bedridden, sir—I—the rent and all—” 

“Your mother may go to the poorhouse or to hell! It 
is all one to me; but you do not leave this room till you 
tell me what you know. I told you that ten days ago! ’ ’ 

“But, sir, I don’t know, sir!” 

“Hold that lying tongue! A little pain will soon 
wring the truth out of you!” With a curse, he raised 
his cane to strike her. 

“0 Master Godfrey! Master Godfrey!” 

This was too much for Muckle John. He hurled his 
mighty bulk against the wall; the board splintered under 
his weight; struggling through the opening, he caught 
by one hand and dropped. Godfrey whirled on his heel 
at the sound, to face the giant fisherman towering above 
him, and the dirk gleaming in the candlelight. 

“Give one sound an’ I’ll drive it through the black 
heart o’ ye, devil’s bloodhound that ye are.” 

Godfrey’s white lips twiched. “What do you want 
here?” he snarled. 

The room had filled with outlaws. 

“Kill him now,” growled one. “Why are ye wait¬ 
ing, Muckle John?” 

“Hold yer tongue, Max,” whispered Donald. “Do ye 


MUCKLE JOHN-O’-THE-CLEUTH 


243 


no’ ken there be a woman here? That’s no’ for a lass 
to see.” Then stepping toward Betsy, he said kindly, 
“Ha’ no fear, poor child, we outlaws be mair rough in 
look than in deed.” 

“Lang Andrew,” came Muckle John’s voice, “take 
charge o’ yon lass. See that no harm befall her. Ye’ll 
answer to Sir James if ye fail.” 

“Aye, sir!” 

“An’ now for ye, Godfrey, if ye value yer life, ye’ll 
answer a question or twa. I’m no’ sayin’ I’ll spare ye 
if ye do, but if ye will na’, I’ll dirk ye now an’ end o’ 
it. No man ever stood in worse need o’ it save it be 
that asp—yer father. Still that’s neither here nor 
there. Where be the dungeon keys?” 

“Hanging on a peg in Sir Roger’s room.” 

“He is lying” whispered Betsy. “They are in his 
doublet.” 

Godfrey snarled, looked at the dirk, then drew them 
out. 

“In which cells be Sir James and Lady Margaret?” 

“I shall tell you that gladly.” An ugly smile crossed 
his face. “Much good may it do you! The earl’s third 
level, second corridor, right cell, Fire-the-Braes’ dungeon. 
The lady’s second level, fourth corridor, third cell of 
the same. I shall tell you what you will find when you 
reach them, that may be of interest to you. In my lord 
the earl’s apartment a hole, a sort of tunnel, some fifteen 
feet in length, leading into the Blind Duncan, dug 
straight through the solid masonry with the Lord knows 
what, as he never had a tool save his finger nails. In 
the apartment of my lady, the countess, a hole near the 
ceiling, somewhat like the one you came through a mo¬ 
ment since, probably made in the same way, and naught 


244 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


else save a bed and two broken stools. Oo down if you 
wish and see for yourself. You are quite welcome. ” 
Godfrey chuckled; there was an evil joy in his face. 
“Now I know just where they are. After searching the 
passages, Sir Roger made up his mind they were with 
you. They are not, else you would not now be seeking 
them, and I know where they are. You have the boy I 
hear. Well, keep him. Much good may it do you. Can 
you prove before the Scottish courts that he is the heir? 
Those who could are safe, that is all; dead folk tell no 
tales. Where ? Drowned in the great cistern. The main 
passage runs above it, the floor has rotted through. 
Poor Joe Baxter got his death there five days ago; that 
is how we found the hole. We could not reach him with 
a rope; heard him yelping for a while; then he went 
under. I said then that my lord and his lady were with 
you or in the cistern. We shall drag the pool to-morrow; 
water is not wholesome with too many dead bodies in it. 
Stay and go to the funeral if you wish; you are welcome. 
Send one of these lads for the young Gordon; the brat 
may act as chief mourner. ’ ’ Godfrey ended with a curse 
and a laugh. 

“Ye’ll keep the name of God off that foul tongue of 
yours. If you be telling a lie, I think I’ll dirk ye; if 
ye be telling the truth, I know I will. One thing I’m 
sure of, Godfrey, son o’ Bertrand, ye be sa o’er wise 
an’ a’-knowin’ that ’tis a pity auld Satan has no’ gived 
ye a seat on his council bench. Ha’ a care, man, we 
folk o’ the Cleuth ha’ borne much, o’er much, but dinna 
think we be lambs at a’ times an’ in a’ places. Wat an’ 
Will, this devil is under yer guard. Dirk him if he 
makes a sound. The rest—take off your boots and 
follow me.” 



IF YOU ARE TELLING A LIE I THINK I’LL DIRK YOU; 
IF YOU ARE TELLING THE TRUTH I KNOW I WILL” 







CHAPTER NUMBER FOURTEEN 

OLD EDWIN AT 
YOUR SERVICE 














t 


Chapter XIY 

OLD EDWIN AT YOUR SERVICE 


ROM the lower end of the hall came 
the regular tread of a sentinel. 
Muckle John raised his hand. 

‘‘Hist! Stay where ye be, Don¬ 
ald,’ ? and the fisherman stole for¬ 
ward alone; keeping in the shadow 
of the wall a moment, then crouching behind a pillar, 
he waited. 

The soldier came steadily on. “Two o’clock an’ a’ is 
weel! ’ ’ The deep voice rang out and the echo ran along 
the empty corridors beyond. 

“Dinna make sa sure o’ that!” muttered the fisher¬ 
man, springing upon the sentry’s back, as he passed, and 
clasping one mighty hand over his mouth. A short 
struggle, a heavy fall, they grappled fiercely on the stone 
floor; then their faces came together. 

“Edwin!” gasped Muckle John, taking his hand from 
the soldier’s mouth. “The saints must ha’ put ye on 
guard this night!” 

“Edwin, aye, Edwin, an’ at yer service, though it’s 
no’ overkind ye be to an auld sailing mate. What brings 
ye here, Muckle John?” 

“We be hunting for the earl and Lady Margaret.” 

“Are they no’ wi’ you? A weel an’ a weel, I thought 
them safe wi’ you.” 

“Yon Godfrey thinks they fell in the cistern.” 



247 






248 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Na, na. Sir Jamie kens o’ the hole. The wee laird 
fell through it.” 

“Then where be they?” 

“Ye are asking a donkey for wisdom. I was hoping 
them safe wi’ ye at the Cleuth.” 

“Godfrey said a’ the secret ways ha’ been searched.” 

“Godfrey! Nathing was known till Godfrey came 
upon earth, an’ when he dies, a’ knowledge will go a 
gay gait. But one thing auld Edwin kens an’ he dinna; 
some of the secret ways be writ on charts an’ maps an’ 
a’ that, but how to open closed doors an’ how to ga fra’ 
one to another is writ in the earl’s head. Sir Jamie can 
play at hide an’ seek while he will, and ’twill be a wiser 
man than Godfrey that catches him. They may be in 
sair need o’ food, though—” 

“Noo, what o’ Sir Jamie?” 

“Weel, gin ye’ll hald yer tongue, Ill tell ye. After 
searching the hoos fra’ end to end, Godfrey starts 
through a’ the batridden secret ways in his ken—which 
is no’ all o’ them. On the third day, twa o’ us found a 
hole nigh the turret o ’ the north tower. I was for going 
through, but my mate said ’twas o’ na use; he had 
climbed through a’ of the spider webs he would save 
under orders, an’ he had bat bites a-plenty. If go I 
would, I’d go alone, but I couldn’t get it off my mind 
that the poor frightened bairn might be dying doon in 
some auld hole; an’ one time I had telt him auld Edwin 
would be at his service when trouble came upon him, so 
in I went. ’Twas the toughest job I ever struck, may¬ 
hap those spider webs an’ such like had no’ been 
touched in twenty year, but I pulled through some how. 
By an’ by I came on a rough stair running twist after 
twist down the wall clear from the turret to the third 


OLD EDWIN AT YOUR SERVICE 


249 


level underwards o’ Fire-the-Braes’ dungeon and lands 
flat in that devil’s hole, the Blind Duncan. I was for 
gettin’ mysel’ out o’ that a mite faster nor I got in, 
when, wod ye think it, I runs on a fine little hole twixt 
the edges o’ two granite blocks. ’Twas scarce bigger 
nor a man’s fist an’ round—” 

“Yer tale he roond aboot eno.’ Go to the point or 
quit!” 

“Weel, weel, now, Muckle John, give me time. I ran 
my sword in as far as might be an ’ finding nathin ’ puts 
in my hand—the hole was larger within, the square stane 
seemed blockin’ up the way. I began to think ’twas 
some poor prisoner’s—” 

“I wod I could block yer tongue; ye prate mair an’ 
say less ner any man o ’ my ken! ’ ’ 

“As I was teltin’ ye, if ye would hald yer whist, the 
stane was blocking up the hole, and mortar a’ but gone 
made the rock loose, one good strong push fra’ within 
would ha ’ shoved it out in the passage; but moldy bread 
is na o’er good for making muscle—” 

“Na doot the bread molded whiles ye were teltin’ the 
cook ta make it. If ye must prate sa lang, give speed 
to yer tongue! ’ ’ 

“Speed? Who be the one that be stoppin’ me? 
Weel, thinks I, ’tis a prisoner’s worm hole, na doot, an’ 
the fellow canna punch out the stane—little dreamin’ 
wha—” 

“Who was it?” 

“Hald yer whist! Weel, I braced mysel’, gied a tug 
or twa, an’ out it came. The hole was too small for 
crawlin’; ’twas a’ I could do to wiggle through. I put 
my candle ahead o’ me an’ my sword—” 



250 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Small wonder ye did na send a reel or twa o’ yer 
tongue ahead o’ ye’, ’twould reach—” 

‘ ‘ Hist, Muckle John! Now as I was teltin ’ ye, this hole 
was some fifteen feet or mair long an’ ended in a round 
o’ blackness. On a sudden in the openin’ came a face. 
Fear, John? I’ll no’ fear mair when I’m dyin’. ’Twas 
the face o’ auld Sir Angus, white hair shadin’ his deep- 
set eyes, beard a’ matted an’ foul wi’ dirt. I’ll meet 
any man livin’ wi’ sword, gun, or neither, but meet them 
wha should be restin’ in their graves i’ the kirkyard— 
na, na, John—let a priest do that. I drops my sword an ’ 
starts back. ‘Edwin,’ he calls in a hoarse kind o’ whis¬ 
per; an’ if I feared afore, what would ye name it now? 
Yet, it struck me queer then, the face was o’ Sir Angus, 
but the voice was o’ Sir Jamie. I makes na answer— 
need I telt ye ? Only crawls backwards as fast as might 
be—or rather wiggles fer—” 

“What be crawlin’ or wigglin’ to me? Ga on wi’ the 
tale! Who was it?” 

“Weel, weel, John, as I wiggles back he calls oot 
again, ‘Edwin!’ an’ begins to climb in at t’other end o’ 
the tunnel. ‘Edwin, lad, surely you will not refuse to 
help me!’ Then I minds a’ the kindness he ha’ shown to 
me an’ mine. Thinks I, ‘A man should serve his chief¬ 
tain that’s livin,’ mayhap he should serve one that’s 
dead’; so I hunts up my grit, stiffens my backbone, 
shoots out my right hand quick an’ makes the sign o’ 
the cross. ‘In the name o’ God!’ cries I. ‘Sir Angus, 
ask what ye will—but haste. I’ll ha’ Masses said or 
what not—if I hang for it—only gang back to yer 
grave!’ ” 

“An’ the spirit—what said the spirit?” 

“He laughed. If ye heard that laugh, crackit an’ 


OLD EDWIN AT YOUR SERVICE 


251 


hoarse an’ a’, but if ye heard it ye wod ken ’twas no’ a 
spirit, ’twas Sir Jamie. That laugh took a’ the fear 
oot o’ me.” 

“But, Edwin man, the laird could no’ be white o’ 
head. Sir Jamie is hut three an’ forty; I have more 
years than he!” 

“The dungeon, John, ye have forgot ten years o’ the 
dungeon. The laird be an old, old man now—aye a 
broken old man!” 

A sound that was half a groan and half a rumble of 
suppressed fury was in the voice of Muckle John. 

“Roger, weaklin’ o’ the hoose o’ Gordon!—his own 
blood brother—and the boy—but ye did no’ pick up the 
weary, bruised laddie an’ watch him fight it out wi’ 
death these ten days. An’ Lady Margaret? What ken 
ye o’ her?” 

“Weel, to make the tale short, the chief kens o’ a 
passage runnin’ by her cell, an’ I broke in the panel an’ 
helped them out.” 

“How had she fared?” 

“Pretty weel off, considerin’. Ye see, the guards had 
guessed who was in that cell an’ had dropped fruit an’ 
meat an’ such like doon the food shoot. We had been 
playin’ that game a’ winter when chances came oor way; 
mayhap, that kept her up. Auld Benson, poor body, she 
be the worst off. I’m feared she be dead by now. ’Twas 
luck I had brought a flask o’ brandy wi’ me to give 
young Gordon, if I found him fainted; so I gived it to 
Lady Margaret. Once I came back to them wi’ what 
food I could find, but on the third trip I found no one. 
I thought they must be safe wi’ ye at the Cleuth. But 
now, where be they?” 

“If they are no’ in the dungeon, Edwin, ’tis waste o’ 


252 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


time to go there. We must begin to search the secret 
way—” 

“Yet afore ye go, Muckle John, I see ye ha’ the keys 
an’ I wod ye’d do a kind turn an’ let my mate Dick 
out o’ cell seven.” 

“Dick! An’ what’s he in for?” 

“Ten days agone we was a’ called out to chase down 
a thief wi’ the hounds. Sir Roger was in a devil’s 
mood—the same he’s been in since he beat the lad. 
Weel, he speaks to Godfrey o’er loud, sa we gets the 
word ’tis Friar Stephen we be chasin’ an’ na thief at a’. 
Just then Dick’s hound gets the scent. The man wo’ 
die afore he’d let harm come on the friar; so he gived 
the dog a kick in the mouth that broke the beast’s muz¬ 
zle an’ flung him fair out in the middle o’ the heather. 
Shame to treat a good hound so, but ’twas that or the 
life o’ Stephen Douglas. Dick might ha’ passed the 
trick on yon dunce Sir Roger but Godfrey was na to 
be caught; an’ doon gaed Dick to the dungeon.” 

“Lead the way, Edwin, an’ since we be in the busi¬ 
ness, there be Peter, wha could be let oot as weel. 
Didn’t pay a’ o’ his rent—doon sick, cow died, corn 
mildewed—” 

“ So ye think that was why Peter gaed to the dungeon, 
de ye?” 

“What mair do ye ken?” Muckle John looked at the 
soldier sharply. 

‘ ‘ The same ye ken yersel ’. But who tald ye ? ” 

“Yon deep-sea man, McMurdoc, an’, if ye ken a’ready, 
I’ll telt ye. He said Godfrey found a drunken sailor 
wha had been on his ship years agone; an’ the man told 
Bertrandson that Peter had his dory nigh Rock Raven- 


OLD EDWIN AT YOUR SERVICE 


253 


hurst on the night, when the wee laird was stolen nine 
year agone—ye mind?” 

“Aye! Who dinna? Weel!” 

“An’ this drunken lout tald Godfrey, a man wrapped 
roond in a lang cloak an’ carryin’ something came out 
fra’ a cave—” 

“The sea end o’ the secret passage! I ken the spot 
weel.” 

“An’ the one in the cloak got into Peter’s dory an’ 
he rowed the stranger to McMurdoc’s ship; but, whiles 
the man was climin’ up to the deck, that something he 
carried made sound—’twas a bairn wailin’ for his 
mither. ’ ’ 

“Peter ha’ never said yet who was the stranger!” 

“Na—ner will he! But McMurdoc feared they would 
send him to the galleys or mayhap rack him because he 
wod no’—” 

“Weel—Godfrey did give him the lash, but Peter was 
o’er much loved by the men o’ the guard. If Bertrand- 
son had gaed farther, the whole garrison wod ha’ 
mutinied; an’ he was too cunning to risk a’ that; so 
he put Peter down here till he’d give in.” 

“Which will be on the Day o’ Doom an’ no’ before!” 

“Weel, ’twas my lot to bring him down an’ chain him 
in his cell. Peter saw by my eyes I kenned who ’twas 
that took the bairn.” 

“Small wonder when it was yersel’, Edwin, that auld 
Benson sent wi’ Lady Margaret’s message.” 

“Whist, Muckle John; ye ken o’er much. Mind yer 
foot on the stair; it’s no steady an’ apt to screak when 
ye step. Weel, Peter begs me to make it seem he was 
in trouble for no’ payin’ his rent—’twas no’ a lie, he 
hadna’ done it—but he say, if it ever got out the real 


254 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


cause, then Friar Stephen wod give himsel’ up to save 
Peter—an’ that be true—ye ken it be. An’ Peter ye 
ken he’d die an’ gladly afore evil came on the priest. 
‘What be my life worth aside o’ the life o’ one like 
yon saint o’ God, Stephen Douglas? There’d be na Mass 
an’ na rites fer the dyin’.’ Hist! Here be the cell— 
give me the keys.” 

The chains and bars grated harshly; the iron-bound 
door turned on its rusty hinges; a gaunt man sprang 
from the floor, his wild eyes gleaming below a mass of 
tangled hair. 

‘ ‘ What wod ye now ? ” he growled, clanking his chains 
as he stumbled backward. 

“Hist! No’ sa loud, Peter!” 

“Muckle John!—as I’m livin’—Muckle John! An’ 
are ye down now?—Who will fish for the bairns o’ the 
Cleuth? How be Anna farin’?” 

“Yer wife be doin’ weel, an’ yer little bairns be fat 
an’ rosy. Come quick, man, ye are goin’ to thim.” 

“Dinna joke wi’ me, John; I canna stand it!” 

“Joke! Why, it’s true, man! Wat an’ Will an’ a’ 
the lad o’ the Cleuth be up in the hall waiting. David 
be there, an’ the size o’ him for his years! When he sees 
the men going, he runs fer yer sword. ‘ Go, Dave, ’ says 
yer Anna, whiles she belted it on him—an’ nigh twice 
round him the leather went—‘Go, Dave, yer father 
canna answer the earl’s call; go take his place! ’ ” 

“I had na doot Anna wod train him right.” There 
was honest pride in the good man’s voice. 

“Come, come, we be laggin’. The last fetter is 
loosened! Edwin, get Dick an’ who else ye will. I’m 
goin’ up wi’ Peter.” 

“Wat,” whispered Muckle John, as they reached the 


OLD EDWIN AT YOUR SERVICE 


255 


waiting outlaws, “here be yer uncle, aye, Will, yer 
Uncle Peter!” 

“0 daddy!” cried David, trailing the long scabbard 
behind him as he ran. “0 daddy! I was just now 
hopin’ Sir James—” 

“Halt! or I fire!” Old Donald’s voice rang out. 
They turned. Godfrey was halfway up the corridor 
running for his life. “Halt!” the timeworn hackbut 
blazed, but the old soldier’s aim was not what it had 
been in years gone by; the bullet flattened against the 
wall. Godfrey leaped up a stairway; his voice came 
echoing back, sounding the alarm. The guards looked at 
Muckle John, then at each other. 

“ ’Tis my own fault. Wat,” growled the fisherman. 
“I forgot the post I gived ye. Donald should ha’ been 
in command an’ no’ me!” 

“Hist!” Edwin’s voice came from the end of the 
hall. “This way! The kitchen stairs! Quick! They’ll 
be afore ye!” 

The outlaws dashed down the corridor and up the 
stairs. Arms clanked on the landing. Sir Roger’s voice 
rang curtly from the upper hall. 

“Shoot the first head that comes above the step!” 

From the hall below, the sound of hurried marching 
and Godfrey’s triumphant, “Bottled in the stairway! 
Well done! Here’s the end of those rebellious outlaws!” 

A scratching in the wainscoting near Muckle John’s 
head—he looked up—just a crack slowly widening— 
four slender white fingers sliding the panel back—Lady 
Margaret’s low, “Quick, John! Open it for me!” 

The fisherman’s mighty hand slid the panel back 
sharply. It seemed but a moment till all were in the 
dark passage, and the secret door was again closed. 



256 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Fire!” Godfrey’s voice rang from below. A volley 
of shots spat up the staircase. “Charge!” A thunder 
of footsteps—a pause— 

“No one here, sir!” 

“Aye, sir, no one!” 

‘ ‘ They were let out above! Scatter! ’ ’ 

“No one has passed through this stairway. I have 
been on guard in person!” 

Sir Roger, still pompous though dismayed, stared 
down while Godfrey stared up. 




CHAPTER NUMBER FIFTEEN 

THE GORDON FOR GOD 
AND OUR LADY 





Chapter XV 

THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY 


HE CLANK of steel and the tramp 
of hurrying feet echoed through the 
corridors and died into silence. Far 
away on the landing near the great 
hall, the old castle clock ticked— 
ticked—ticked. 

“Muckle John,” whispered Lady Margaret, ‘‘what of 
my boy? Did he reach you?” 

‘‘Aye, my lady, he did.” The fisherman paused. How 
could he tell this mother of her wasted, wounded laddie 
gasping on his cot at home—that is if the boy still 
gasped—if the Douglas eyes were not closed forever? 
“Aye, Lady Margaret.” 

“Speak out, Muckle John. True kindness will make 
you tell me the worst. It is much, so much, to know 
that at least he reached you. We had feared that he 
might have fallen into the pits of the Blind Duncan.” 

“Aye, my lady, he ha’ been wi’ us fra’ the first; but 
he ha’ been sick, my lady. Now dinna be fearin’—Jean 
hopes the turn be past. He couldna help gain’ down 
on his back wi’ all he’s been through. Ye see, he was 
wetted an’ the wind struck him. I didna find him till 
morning. He was out o’ his head by then. Dinna be 
worritin’, my lady. Lung fever do get folks flighty so 
soon; but the turn’s past, lady. Ye see he didna get 
his wits till to-day at sundown; so we couldna ha’ come 



259 




260 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHITRST 


afore. We didna ken o' the laird's order—ten days 
cornin’—he must ha’ thought us grand an’ fine laggers!” 

“No, no! Sir James knew you too well to doubt your 
loyalty. We feared the boy had never reached the 
Cleuth, and we have been searching the pits and secret 
ways for days. Since Gordon is with you, he is safe. 
Jean will do all a mortal woman can do; the rest is with 
God.” 

“Here be a flask of brandy, lady,” whispered Edwin. 
“I ha’ no’ been able to find ye since.” 

* ‘ And may God reward you for it! What you gave us 
before has kept my faithful Benson living. Poor soul, 
she will need strength for the long crawl.” 

“Where be the laird?” 

“Sir James went some time ago with Stephen to get 
the chalices that were hidden in the old fireplace. I 
think I hear him coming. James!” 

“Yes, Margaret—who is with you?” 

“Edwin, Muckle John, and the outlaws. They have 
the boy—ill, but there is hope.” 

“Thank God! Stephen has gone on ahead. Come 
(his way.” 

“Aye, sir!" and they crawled away into the darkness 
one by one. 

“Muckle John,” a whisper drifted back from Sir 
James, “Stephen has the sacred vessels, but it cut to 
leave the old hearthstone where the Precious Blood fell 
years and years ago. Who will care for that now? 
Neither of us had strength to lift so great a weight; do 
you think you could?” 

“Aye, sir, if someone will telt me the way to find the 
fireplace, I’ll get the holy stane right gladly.” 

“Edwin can lead you.” 


THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY 261 


“Aye, sir, an' we can come out the short tunnel—na 
—that gaes o’er the cistern—that’s a hole—but we could 
plank it—” 

“No, the risk is great when there is no need for it. 
We will wait here. There is a large bearskin rug in 
the room. Wrap the stone in it to dull the sound of 
the dragging. ” 

“Aye, sir!” 

The two slipped into a cross tunnel and were gone. 

A stifled cough came from the darkness. Sir James 
turned. 

“Do I hear rightly? That sounds like Donald’s 
cough. ’ ’ 

“Aye, sir, an’ I should a’heald it in.” 

There was a tremble in the old voice as if he felt his 
days of usefulness were over and younger men must be 
preferred before him. The earl caught the note and 
spoke quickly. 

“The saints have sent us good fortune, I had not 
hoped we had yet a man among us trained by the great 
Sir Angus. I was on the point of asking of your where¬ 
abouts for I have need of you.” 

“Aye, sir!” The joy in that cracked old voice! “ At 
your service, sir! ” 

“Do you remember where a certain chest was hidden 
fifteen years ago?” 

“Aye, sir!” 

“The markings of the spot?” 

“Aye, sir!” 

“Bring it with what speed you may to the Ben Ender 
opening of the passage.” 

“Aye, sir!” 

“Wat and Will are under your command.” 


262 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Aye, sir.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

An hour passed. 

“There they come now,” whispered Benson faintly. 
“Do ye no’ hear them?’’ 

“Hear? Never a sound do I hear,” answered Betsy. 

“Your ears are no’ yet tuned to silence.” 

“Weel,” piped Davie, “I hear a rat gnawin’ at Lang 
Andrew’s shoe.” 

“If ye stayed longer i’ the silence, ye’d hear the 
spiders when they spin,” growled Andrew. 

“Na, na,” muttered Peter. “Ye can no’ hear them, 
but ye can feel them weel now. Stop pratin’ an’ move 
on wi’ ye. The laird lia’ started forward.” 

Crawling on hour after hour through the endless dark¬ 
ness, with never a word and scarcely a sound, it seemed 
to poor old Benson that the end would never come. At 
last she sank down in the mud. “I canno’ make it!” 
she gasped. 

“It will not be much longer. God pity her!” came the 
earl’s voice. “The light is beginning to come. Be as 
gentle as you can, Andrew, but bring her; she would die 
if left behind.” 

“Did ye say there be light, my laird? Where be it? 

I canna see my own hand,” muttered John. 

/ 

“Are ye stark mad? ’Tis nigh light as day!” broke 
in Peter. 

Edwin pushed forward. 

“Ha’ ye ladies a kerchief or twa? Yer eyes are 
dungeon weakened, my laird. We must blindfold ye an’ 
Peter afore they begin to pain. Full sunlight let on 
them noo wod make ye stane blind. Ye ken ye ha’ 
lived in the blackness ten years an’ mair.” 


THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY 263 


“God bless you!” whispered the earl as Edwin fas¬ 
tened the bandages. “God bless you, for ’tis little else 
but wishes your poor chief has to give. Let Donald lead 
now, he knows the way.” 

Then the weary line crawled on. The light grew until 
all could see it. Far ahead the arch at the tunnel’s end, 
and across it a nodding spray of green. 

“0 James, how I wish you might see it! Just one 
tossing branch of a woodland scrub, the dewdrops glis¬ 
tening on the half-open leaves, and God’s glad sunshine 
over all.” 

“And so I shall, little wife, so I shall one day, when 
we three—you and the boy and I—we three wander 
through the wild green wood in that land beyond the 
sea. Hist! Donald not so fast! I heard something among 
the oaks outside. Move the bush with your sword. Keep 
under cover.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

The veteran touched the root sharply. A crack from 
the thicket beyond, a bullet flattened against the stone. 
A laugh from the outer world and Sir Roger’s voice. 

“Come, and a warm welcome to you! Godfrey waits 
with a hundred men where the passage opens near the 
old ruin. A captain with as many more stands guard 
by the seaward opening. Crawl back and try to pass 
them. Come out, and a dose of lead to each. Stay 
where you are, and starve. Those old pitted rat holes are 
fine graves. You are not the first to sleep in them.” 

A round hundred muzzles glittered among the bushes. 

‘ ‘ Is there another yet ? Some way he does not know ? ’ ’ 

“No,” the earl’s voice seemed weary. “We shall 
have to tunnel out. Donald.” 

“Aye, sir.” 


264 


THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Hist! What was that?” 

“Stephen Douglas! As I’m living!” 

“Na, na, man, not the friar!” 

‘ ‘ Aye, but it be him though! ” 

“See the auld gray cloak. He canna be coinin’ out in 
full sight. They wnd see him. Ah, worra me! He kens 
there be a thousand pounds on him dead or livin’. What 
can it mean?” 

‘ * Hist! He be speakin T ’ 

There is a strange power in the saints. They have no 
fear save the fear of God. Bravery touches the worst of 
men; and these were not the worst. The guns lowered 
as the old gray cloak passed by, and the men listened in 
silence. 

“Lads,” Stephen’s voice was low and even, “lads, 
your guns are leveled at your own earl and lady. Have 
they ever done you wrong ? ’ 9 

“The little laird! Not the bairn and his mother!” 

‘ 1 No, it is the earl himself. See ! 9 9 

The bushes parted, and the prisoner clutching the 
stone with one hand drew himself erect before them. 

“The earl! This is the earl!” sneered Sir Roger. 

“Stephen Douglas never lied!” 

“Yes, lads, this is the earl.” 

“The Gordon!” 

Twas scarcely more than a whisper for the moment; 
then it came in the long peal of thunder from a hundred 
throats: “The Gordon! The Gordon for God and our 
Lady!” 

“Fools!” gasped Sir Roger, dismayed because he had 
not Godfrey to prompt him in this extremity. “Fools! 
Can that wandering beggar make you believe a lie ? The 
madman of the gray cloak! A hounded outlaw with a 


THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY 265 


price upon his head! And you believe him? Believe a 
lying scoundrel ? That old wretch by the rocks the Earl 
of Ravenhurst! Were my brother James of Gordon liv¬ 
ing, he would be a man in his prime! Fools! And you 
call that vile, old dungeon-rotted criminal an earl—and 
my brother! ’ ’ 

“Sir,” the captain of the guard spoke curtly, “sir, 
the valets of your dungeons are not overcareful of the 
personal appearance of prisoners. This is the earl. Our 
allegiance is to him.” 

“Aye! Aye!” came the roar of a hundred shouts. 
“The Gordon! The Gordon!” and the cliffs of old Ben 
Ender echoed once again to the old cry. ‘ ‘ The Gordon! 
The Gordon! Welcome home, kind laird! Welcome to 
old Ravenhurst! The Gordon! The Gordon!” 

Sir Roger turned swiftly and strode up the path. 
Not even the stiffness of offended dignity could hide the 
writhing of that sallow face. Tears!—and the soldiers 
had seen them—tears of pride raging at its own impo¬ 
tence—maddened by his own lack of wit, of self-control. 
He knew—when had he ever been able to forget it?—he 
knew the very scullions of Castle Ravenhurst had noth¬ 
ing but contempt for the weakling of the house of 
Gordon. 

The earl drew his hand across his eyes. The bandage 
was wet with tears. Tears!—and those soldier hearts 
went out to him because of them. 

“God bless you!” and his voice was hoarse and 
broken. “God bless you! You are Gordons, and Clan 
Gordon was ever true! Do not judge poor Roger over- 
hard. He has not the strength of will that goes with 
the Gordon blood. Poor man, he has gone down with the 
evil tide.” 


266 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“More than he have done that/’ muttered the captain. 
“Not all though—Edwin never failed to make his Easter, 
and others have risked it, too; hut most of us at the castle 
—myself as well, sir—most of us went with the evil tide. 
Still now that we have you once more, my lord, we will 
—God helping us—we will stand with you again sir, for 
God and our Lady.” 

“Aye, my laird,” cried Edwin. “Give us the word! 
Only give us the word! Ye’ll ha’ Rock Ravenhurst afore 
the sun’s an hour higher. The lads by the sea opening 
and those on the walls are Gordons. There be only 
Godfrey and his hundred Russell mercenaries.” 

“No, Roger may have Castle Ravenhurst and what¬ 
ever of this world’s goods may go with it. He has paid 
such a fearful price for his poor little earthly toys, it 
would he a pity if he could not enjoy them, at least, in 
this short life. For the other, God grant the poor weak¬ 
ling repentance before the gates of eternity close.” 

“Sir! Ye will no’ give yer rights to yon dastard?” 
broke in Muckle John fiercely. 

“Let it pass, you brave-hearted clansman. Is it so 
much that is given to him? Even here in this poor 
world, is there nothing better than piles of ivy-mantled 
stone and heaps of golden treasure? Has poor Roger 
ever known—could he ever know, were it but for a mo¬ 
ment—the humble joys of your little home, the love of 
a woman like Jean? No, poor weakling, his sweetest 
fruit will prove but the gilded rind enclosing the gall 
of wounded pride.” 

“Weel, Sir Jamie,” Edwin raised his hand in the old 
salute, “if ye dinna care to take Rock Ravenhurst fra’ 
yer brother—blood be thicker ner water an’ ye ha’ a 


THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY 267 


forgivin’ heart—what wod ye say to buildin’ a new 
castle on one o’ the heights o’ Ben Ender?” 

“I have a better plan than that. Erecting a fortress 
would mean beginning a feud, and the end of that you 
know well. You would die in battle, your orphans and 
your widows starve. The cause for which our fathers 
stood is dead—though not forever. It is to the New 
World that we must turn our eyes. There the old cause 
lives anew.” 

“Aye!” cried the captain of the guard, “aye, my 
lord, would you lead us there? That is a plan worth 
hearing, if all the sailor tales he true—red men, prince 
and nobles and all that, roaming the wild wood, furs fit 
for the king’s wearing, aye, lads, and Spanish gold!” 

“No, no! I am not promising fortune in the New 
World. I know of no land where gold is picked up by 
the handful, and jewels shine like drops of dew on a 
May morning. These are but sailors’ tales. Those who 
would follow me to Maryland must go for one reason only 
—to find a spot where they can worship God in peace. 
There are but few priests in our part of Scotland; soon 
there will be none. When the priests and the sacraments 
are gone, the Faith must die among our children. Years 
ago, Baltimore told me much about his colony. Do not 
hope for gold, for you will find hardship instead. We 
shall suffer, even on the way. If the wind be contrary, 
we may face starvation. When we reach Maryland, we 
shall suffer also—I fear very much—at least during the 
months before the first crops can be harvested. The 
weaker ones may die. Even after the worst is over, there 
will be hard work and grinding poverty all our lives. 
But we shall be free and our children can be reared in 
the Faith. How many are willing to follow me?” 


268 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Sir,” old Donald’s trembling hand rose in salute, 
“sir, Gordon Clan ha’ never refused to follow the laird. 
I be at your service. Muckle John dinna be all day wi’ 
yer ‘Aye, sir.’ ” 

The fisherman drew a bit of heather through his fin¬ 
gers and looked out across the sea. 

“Never to see Scotland any mair, never to smell the 
wind o’ momin’ blowin’ fresh fra’ o’er the heath, never 
to watch the sun a-risin’ out o’ the waters o’ the frith, 
glintin’ alang the whitecaps, reddenin’ the snow on the 
head o’ Ben Ender, callin’ an’ callin’ the fishers home.” 

“Muckle John Tamson o’-the-Cleuth!” cried Donald, 
“ye be the last man I wod ha’ taken for a lagger!” 

“Lagger? Who be laggin’? We all be goin’; sure, 
the laird kens best! For the sake o’ the bairns it must 
be done; but it cuts, man, it cuts! ’ ’ 

“And I have a greater burden to lay on your shoul¬ 
ders, my brave Muckle John.” 

“Aye, sir!” 

“You are the best seaman among us; so it falls to 
your lot to be skipper of the little ship that bears Clan 
Gordon overseas.” 

“Sir, I be no’ fit for that. I’d land ye in Davy’s 
locker. Ye ha’ need o’ a deep-sea man fer that.” 

‘ ‘ By the time we found one, what would Sir Roger and 
my lord of Russell have done?” 

“Sent twa brigs or mair to guard the mouth o’ the 
frith. If ye say, ‘ Go! ’ we maun go. ’ ’ 

“Go with the morning tide. Is the St. Andrew in 
good order?” 

“Aye, sir! The ship’s seaworthy. Sure, Sir Angus 
had her built! An’ I ha’ no’ used her in rough weather 
since the Narwy Kitts —” 


THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY 269 


‘‘You have a second ship?” 

“Aye, sir, the Kitts, she’s a lugger o’ my ain makin’, 
somewhat heavy, hut strong, every plank an’ beam in 
her be o’ oak fra’ the best trees on Ben Ender. It’s no 
lack o’ boats, it’s lack o’ head in the skipper. I’ll take 
ye a’ down to Davy!” 

“Wod ye hear him! An’ every lad on the shore kens 
Muckle John can steer home though a’ the light o’ the 
headlands be wrappit up in fog. A’ the fishers o’ the 
frith guide themsels by the bells o’ the Kitts. yy 

“Weel, an’ a weel, what’s that? Small wonder I ken 
the growlin’ o’ the shoals. I ha’ passed them day by 
day since I was a bairn.” 

“Ye ha’ been wi’ yon deep-sea man McMurdoc to 
France an’ the Orkneys, an’ e’en to the Irish coast. 
Ye ken—” 

‘ ‘ Eno ’ to ken how little I ken. ’ ’ 

“The New World be in the west. Is it no’ big eno’ 
to find?” 

“Find? Aye, but where? Fra’ the ice o’ the north¬ 
ern land’s end to the ice that be at the south—go west, 
ye’ll strike America, but where? Straight out fra’ here 
be the fishing banks o’ Newfoundland, ice mountains 
be floating there an’ the cold be bitter white death. To 
the south lie the Spanish isles, pearls an’ gold be there, 
an’ pirates that give ye for yer food yer own tongue an’ 
ears cut out an’ served wi’ red peppers, that’s afore they 
bid ye man, woman, an’ bairn walk the plank or hang 
ye fra’ yer own bowsprit an’ fire the ship. Go west, 
ye’ll find America no doubt, but where? An’ what? 
Now Virginia be safe fer the king’s men or fer us if 
they had no wind o’ our bein’ papists; an’ Virginia is 
somewhere’s in the midst ’twixt the Newfoundland an’ 



270 THE OUTLAWS OP RAVENHURST 


the Spanish isles. ’Tis Mary’s Land though we do be 
wantin’. Which same is a bit to the north o’ Virginia. 
Now take the wind o ’ this: I must steer a ship, manned 
wi’ land lubbers, crowded wi’ mothers, wi’ maids an’ wi’ 
bairns, an ’ get through sick a mony dangers; yet, here’s 
my bearin’s: point the prow toward a land i’ the west 
a bit to the north o’ the spot that’s a lot to the south o’ 
the Newfoundland, an’ a somewhat to the north o’ the 
Spanish isles. Grand an’ fine knowledge fer a skipper’s 
head!” 

“You have reason to fear, Muckle John; yet it may 
be that I can give you some assistance or rather obtain 
it as we pass the friendly Irish coast. ’ ’ 

“Oh, a weel! I should ha’ thought o’ that. If ye 
ken the way, my laird—” 

“No, I can not say that; yet, I have some maps that 
will be of service; and remember, John, we can count 
upon the help of Heaven, since we are doing the will of 
God. We have two seaworthy ships?” 

“Weel, Sir Jamie, the Nancy Kitts is no’ sa gran’ an’ 
fine as the St. Andrew; but if we put the women an’ 
the bairns in the large boat wi’ what else be o’ worth, 
the luggage might be trusted to the Kitts. If she gaes 
doon, ’tis na’ great matter.” 

“We can take but little with us. It is my present 
plan to load your boat with seed corn—” 

“Corn? Where wod a man find corn to fill—” 

“The corn for planting and the provisions for the 
journey, we shall buy on the Irish coast. Donald has 
had in his safe-keeping the money I saved for this 
project years ago. It is little; but there should be suf¬ 
ficient to provide for the passage overseas and yet buy 
small farms for all in the colony. Muckle John, you are 


THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY 271 


the best judge of the seamen. Choose your crews from 
those who are willing to go.’’ 

“All o’ the clan be goin’, my laird.” 

“No! Man by man let him speak. All are free to 
do as they will.” 

Man by man each cast his lot for Maryland. Only 
Edwin stood striking his heel back and forth in the sand. 

“How long will ye hang fire?” cried old Donald. 
“Pittin’ yer soul again’ a few pence!” 

‘ 1 ’Tis na pence! ’Tis my old mother. Who will care 
fer her?” 

“Bring your mother with us.” 

“Na, my laird; that I canna; she be bedridden, poor 
soul; ’twod kill her. I’ll ha’ to bide in Scotland; but 
when I ha’ laid her i’ the kirkyard, then—if I hunt the 
wide world o’er for ye—I’ll be one o’ Clan Gordon 
agin. ’ ’ 

“You are right, Edwin.” Stephen Douglas spoke 
slowly. “Your duty is here even as mine.” 

“Yours! You will not stay here in Scotland!” 

Lady Margaret paused. It would be useless to plead 
with her brother; she knew that noble heart too well. 

“Muckle John,” came the earl’s voice sharply. 
“What do you beyond that heather bush?” 

“The dungeon ha’ gived ye fine eyes, that ye look 
through bandages! ’ ’ growled the fisherman beneath his 
breath. But Sir James caught the words. 

‘ ‘ I did not see you, I heard you; and your step did not 
please me. Where were you bound?” 

“My laird, I ha’ a wee bit o’ business no’ done yet.” 

“And that business is?” 

“Weel, my laird, if ye’ll forgive me, I wod rather no’ 
tell ye; but I’ll be back—” 


272 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“You shall not go till you have told me.” 

“But I may, if I do?” 

“That depends on the business.” 

“Ye wod na’ be dootin’ me?” 

“Doubt your loyalty? Never! But in the mood you 
are in I fear—” 

“Weel, fear na’ mair. I ? ll be back.” 

“You do not go till you have told me.” 

“Weel, Sir Jamie, weel, ye ha’ me down.” 

“Out with that business.” 

“Weel, if I maun, weel, ye may ha’ settled scores wi’ 
yon dastard Sir Roger. Ye be a saint—but that be no 
sign I ha’—” 

“And you would put the sin of vengeance on your 
soul, the day before you face death upon the sea? I 
feared your blood was up, Muckle John.” 

“Sin? ’Tisnasin! But, if it be—” The fisherman 
strode to the spot where Stephen Douglas stood, and like 
some giant boy knelt at the friar’s feet. 

“If it be sin, it be on me now. I ha’ sworn—an’ I 
be still swearin’—I ha’ sworn to give yon dastard what 
he gived the poor bairn, blow f(or blow an’ worse. Wi’ 
the knouted lash o’ a galley whip will I give him his 
portion. When that be done, I ha’ sworn, an’ I be no’ 
takin’ it back, I ha’ sworn to fling him—I ha’ sworn— 
an’ yon son o’ Bertrand wi’ him—I ha’ sworn to fling 
him fra’ the high tower wha’ o’erlooks the cliff to fling 
him out—fair out till he falls on the w’ave-beat rocks 
below. If Sir Jamie calls it sin, I dinna. A coward will 
n,ever make a folk. Slay him! ’ ’ 

“Vengeance is sin, Muckle John.” 

“Sin? Sin? Wait till God Almighty gets him an’ 
telt me, will He no fling the weaklin’ fra’ the high bat- 


THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY 273 


tlement o’ heaven, down—down into worse ner the frith 
—down—” 

“Muckle John, a man must not sit on the judgment 
seat of the Almighty. You do not, can not know—” 

“Ye mean God wod let yon dastard—he who ha’ 
turned agin kith an’ kin for gold—served his own 
brother as he ha’ Sir Jamie—an’ his own brother’s wife 
—the bairn wha’ he should ha’ guarded—but ye never 
saw the poor Weedin’ laddie—an’ mair; ha’ he’ no’ 
turned agin his God, an’ made ithers do the like? A’ 
weel! "Where wod I make end? Ye mean God wod let 
yon dastard go ? ” 

“If Roger of Gordon die in sin, he will be condemned. 
But is it for you to send a man to judgment before the 
God-appointed time? If he has sinned, need you sin 
also? Your heart is over-hot, Muckle John; and, but 
that I know what kindled the fire, I would have Harder 
words for your ears. You love, Muckle John, you love 
much those who have long loved you and yours. It is 
the wrongs of others that burn in your soul, even the 
wrongs of your God; but you forget, my son, the wrath 
of the just turns quickly to the vengeance of sinners.” 

“Sir James, an’ the lady, an’ ye be a’ saints. For- 
givin ’ dinna come easy to me. ’ ’ 

“Nor to any, when wrongs are deep; but we must, if 
we would say the Our Father. ’ ’ 

“What if I canna?” 

“You can, God helping. Have you asked?” 

“Na, it goes agin the grain.” 

“Of all men, Muckle John.” Stephen laid his hand 
on the shaggy black head. The rough hair parted. He 
ran his finger along the shining white line that reached 
from crown to temple and turned straight across the 


274 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


weather-beaten cheek. “Where got you this scar, 
Muckle John?” 

“Ye ken weel I be prouder o’ yon scar than I wod be 
o’ a’ the signs on a laird’s shield.” 

“Because once you fell guarding the Body of the 
Lord your God. And now you would wound the Heart 
of that same Lord God?” 

“Na! Na! I wod fling in the frith the one wha ha’ 
turned fra’ the Faith fer gold, wha ha’—” 

“Let other men’s sins alone. You know the Lord 
said, ‘Forgive.’ ” 

“If the wrong had been done to me!” 

“Are not the wrongs of the house of Gordon written 
in that Heart ? Who was it said, ‘Father, forgive them’ ? 
If Roger refuse that pardon, if Roger yet wound the 
Sacred Heart, need you?” 

‘ ‘ An ’ ye be sure I be woundin ’ the Heart o ’ my God ? 
Na, na, I wod na’ do that, Father. Roger’s na’ worth it. 
Na, na, I wod na’ do that!” 

“But it does wound—” 

“Na, na, that I will na’. I’ll forgie the poor weaklin’, 
I’ll forgie him.” 

“Thank God, Muckle John, that you have learned to 
forgive your enemies,” replied Friar Stephen with evi¬ 
dent emotion. Then raising his eyes toward the battle- 
scarred towers of Castle Ravenhurst, the saintly priest 
appeared to gaze into the future and, with the assurance 
of a prophet of old, he exclaimed: 

“Roger will not long enjoy the fruits of his treachery. 
Royalty shall fall, and Roger shall go down with it. 
Godfrey, son of Bertrand, will prove false to his mas¬ 
ter; shall himself become commandant of Ravenhurst. 
Then he, too, shall pay the penalty of his crimes. Thank 


THE GORDON FOR GOD AND OUR LADY 275 


God, my children, that He has given us the grace to 
persevere in the old Faith to the end!” 

Future events proved how truly prophetic were these 
words. King Charles fell, and over his dead body Crom¬ 
well rose to power. Covenanter and Puritan cheered. 
Royalists went down and with them Roger of Raven- 
hurst. Betrayed by Bertrand’s son, the weakling heard 
in his own ears the grating of dungeon locks; he was 
brought up again only to be dragged to red death. Guilt- 
stained, perjured, cringing, a coward to the end, but it 
may be a repentant coward, for folk said that he mut¬ 
tered on his way to the scaffold, “Fool! fool! man or 
traitor! fool, fool fool!” 

Then for his little day Godfrey was in command at 
Ravenhurst, but the eagle-eye of Cromwell caught him 
playing double games, and the iron heel of Cromwell 
crushed him as it might have done a worm on the path. 



/ 


CHAPTER NUMBER SIXTEEN 
BY THE MARGIN OF THE RIVER 




Chapter XVI 

BY THE MARGIN OF THE RIVER 


EAN STOOD by her cottage door, 
now straining her eyes to watch the 
mountain path, and again stepping 
within to care for the boy. 

“Jean!” It was the voice of 
David’s mother. The figure ap¬ 
peared in the doorway. “Jean!” Look yon! There be 
some one on the path, another! Aye, ’tis the lad. Yon’s 
Dave! Things ha’ gaid weel, I be thinkin.’ He be wav¬ 
ing his bonnet fit to break the arm off himseF, but he 
has no’ the claymore! I should no’ ha’ trusted him wi’ 
it! Yon’s Muckle John! Aye, an’ ’tis Lady Margaret’s 
ain sel ’ he be helpin ’! Who, do ye take it, be the auld 
man—him wi’ the bandaged eyes?” 

“ ’Tis the laird, Anna.” 

“Na, na! Ha’ ye lost yer wits, Jeanie? Sir Jamie be 
na’ mair ner thra an’ forty. Yon auld man is fit to put 
his white head under the sod.” 

“It’s the laird, Anna. I tell ye ’tis the laird himsel’. 
Can ye no’ tell the soldier step and the straight line o’ 
his shoulders. Shame on your blind eyes. ’Tis the suf¬ 
fering that has aged him.” 

“It’s stark crazy ye are! Yon old man is fourscore 
if he’s a day. There’s Wat and Will an’, as my eye’s 
are in my head, there’s Peter!” Throwing her shawl 
over her head she dashed up the pathway. 

“Anna! Anna!” Jean looked anxiously through the 



279 






280 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


door of the cottage; then stepping out called again: 
“Anna! Go to our lady first! Anna! Na, she dinna 
hear me! Anna! Anna! Louder I dare na call for 
fear o’ the laddie. Anna! Anna, woman! Ha’ ye no 
mind o’ any sorrows but your own? An’ the wee laddie 
dyin’. Na, poor lass, I’d be crazy wi’ joy mysel’ if my 
John were in her Peter’s shoes. But who’ll bring word 
to the lady? Who’ll bid her hasten? She’ll be thinkin’ 
he’s better. John will ha’ told her so. None know o’ 
the backset save Anna an’ me. Aye, there she goes up 
the hill clackin’ to Peter an’ Dave. No thought o’ the 
lady; an ’ the backset her fault. She could send Dave to 
my lady. Na, na, there be a’ the wives o’ the village 
round the path watching for her to kiss her hand as she 
passes. Aye, sweet lady that she is, stoppin’ an’ givin’ 
a kind word to each, never dreamin’ her own wee bairn 
is a’ but gone. If I could run there and back. Oh, 
worra me! I dare no’ leave him. Hist! Was he 
stirrin ’ ? ” 

Jean slipped into the cottage. “He’s gone! O Mother 
o ’ mercy! Gone an ’ my lady no ’ wi ’ him! ’ ’ 

Dropping on her knees beside the couch, she lifted the 
wasted little body in her arms. There was no light in 
the half-closed eyes. His head rolled limply on the pil¬ 
low, and he sighed. 

“ ’Tis a sigh. 0 laddie, ye ha’ no’ gone yet! Dinna 
by dyin’ now, love! Yer mither will be here in a mo¬ 
ment, darlin’! Hald out, laddie! Dinna be dyin’ now! 
Clackin’ fool that I be, pratin’ as if he knew what I’m 
sayin ’! If I had the wine on the mantel—Oh, worra me! 
—an ’ I lay him down while I get it— ’ ’ 

A hand slipped under the boy’s head; a cup was 


BY THE MARGIN OF THE RIVER 281 


pressed to the half-open lips. Jean knew the firm, slen¬ 
der fingers. 

‘ ‘ Thank God, lady, he’s breathin ’ yet, I knew so little 
what to do, lady. If you had been here, it might be—” 

“It would be just as it is. I know your faithful heart. 
More, mortal woman could not do than you have done. 
But, go now, dear, bid one of the lads follow Friar 
Stephen. Perhaps he may yet be in time.” 

“Aye, that’s Lady Margaret for ye!” murmured Jean 
as she ran up the path, “quiet and steady like, even 
when her heart’s a-breakin’.” 

“Quiet and steady like.” Jean did not see her now, 
the white head bowed upon the rushes of the couch, the 
thin, bent shoulders quivering under the silken plaid, 
the hot words, swifter than her falling tears. 

“0 God! 0 my God, I can not! Only in baby days 
was he mine! 0 God, Thou knowest the years of fear 
and of waiting! Then he was with me again—mine for 
a few hours. How the memory of the brave boyish face 
has sweetened the long months of darkness! Now he is 
going, now when we, all three, might be together—some¬ 
where—no matter what poverty—what suffering—some¬ 
where together. 0 God, I can not! If I rebel against 
God? What am I saying? Pity my weakness! I can 
not! 0 God, forgive me! I can not!” 

Jean’s flying feet were halfway up the pathway. 

“Wat! Aye, Wat, lad! Run for Friar Stephen! Dinna 
begin to clack! The little laird is dyin’. Hald yer 
starin’. Speed, lad! He’s a’ but gone.” 

“What are ye sayin’, woman?” called Muckle John, 
leading Sir James at a swifter pace. “He was sleeping 
like a lamb when I left home.” 


282 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Aye, he'd be sleepin’ yet but for—well, I’ll no’ say 
names. She didna mean what—” 

‘ ‘ Ha ’ ye taken leave o ’ yer wits, Jean ? ’ ’ 

“Na, ’twas she that lost hers. But I’ll say no’ names. 
Clackin’ like a fool by the window—near by it—and 
loud enough to wake deaf Betty.” 

“Will ye talk wi’ some sense, Jean? What did the 
woman do?” 

“Do? She did nathing. ’Twas her clackin’ tongue. 
He heard about the ten days o’ his sickness. Then he 
goes to worritin’ that harm ha’ come to his mither, or 
Sir Roger ha’ found the hole in the passage; then ’twas 
the wolves ha’ got ’em, an’ that set him coughin’ again. 
Up goes the fever an’ the blood! Mair come than ye’d 
think was in the wan body. Since then he’s been lyin’ 
there breathin’, that’s a’.” 

They had reached the door. 

“Raise yer foot the breadth o’ a hand, my laird; it’s 
the doorstep.” 

John led Sir James into the cottage and paused a 
moment. The earl and his lady might wish to be alone; 
he and Jean would, if it were their bairn; but, perhaps 
he might be of service; so he and his wife knelt on the 
doorstep. The earl pressed his fingers on the fluttering 
pulse. 

“The little barque is on the margin of the river, Mar¬ 
garet. I fear it will slip across the stream before 
Stephen comes.” 

“No, dear, we can hope still. His breath is stronger. 
I am thankful that your eyes are bandaged. You can 
not see the unhealed bruises on his face. 0 James, you 
spoke of Roger’s cruelty; but Gordon had told you 
little, very little.” 



BY THE MARGIN OF THE RIVER 













BY THE MARGIN OF THE RIVER 


283 


The mother would have lifted the covering from 
Gordon’s shoulder; but Jean, springing from the door¬ 
way, laid her toil-hardened hand on the white fingers. 

“Na, lady, dinna be looking. Ye canna bear it now! 
I’ll tell ye true, but dinna be lookin’! There is no’ a 
spot ye could lay yer hand on but is green wi’ bruises; 
and the places where the whip cut so mony times—aye, 
lady, I could no’ make them heal at a’. They be worse 
than at first—a’ fretted wi’ fever. Poor baimie, he ha’ 
suffered, lady, he ha’ suffered; but dinna be lookin’. Ye 
canna bear it noo!” 

“I have seen the wounds, dear. I examined them 
while you were gone. If he could have a few days rest 
before going on shipboard—” Lady Margaret mur¬ 
mured as Jean slipped back to her husband’s side. 
“Only a few days to rest—” 

“He will be at rest in a few moments more, little 
mother. ’ ’ 

“No, James, no; he is better.” 

“We must face the truth, Margaret. If he rallies 
now, it will be but to die on shipboard.” 

Slowly Sir James pushed the beads, cross foremost, 
over the quilt, blindly groping for her hand.. Lady 
Margaret gazed at the boyish face on the pillow—the 
dark, bruised lines—the pinched, half-open lips— 

“And he was alone when he suffered,” she whispered. 
“So ever I knew it would be.” Then her eyes turned 
toward the crucifix hanging on the wall, and as she 
gazed, she murmured: 

“There stood by the cross of Jesus, Mary, His 
Mother! ’ ’ 

For a while she stared dumbly, thinking of that other 
dying Son, that other Mother. Her lips were moving: 


284 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


* ‘ Suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and 
was buried.’’ The voice on the other side of the couch 
was even-toned once more. ‘ ‘ I believe in the Holy Ghost, 
the Holy Catholic Church.” Catching the sound of the 
familiar prayer, the two by the door joined them. 
Prayer and response ebbed and flowed, growing ever 
more pleading, rising from the margin of the river, even 
to the eternal shore, throbbing in ceaseless music at the 
foot of the great White Throne: “Holy Mary, Mother 
of God, pray for us sinners.” 

Over and over, and yet once more, the little beads 
slipped on their way. A change came in the child’s 
face. He had not stirred, but there was a light in the 
half-open eyes. Slowly, very slowly, the waxen lids drew 
back. The right hand fluttered—a weary load to lift, 
but there was a will in the house of Gordon—the frail 
hand rose—one, two, three inches till it touched her hair. 

“White—it—is—white,” he said. 

“Yes, dear, mother’s head is white. Father is here.” 

Troubled tears filled his eyes. ‘ 1 1 believe—I—thought 
—mean—” 

“Do not try to speak, dear. Mother knows all about 
it. Father told me. See, now we shall forget it.” 

She drew him into her arms to kiss him, but he quiv¬ 
ered with pain; remembering the wounds that had not 
healed, she laid him tenderly upon the pillow. A 
shadow crossed the doorstep. Jean hurriedly lit the 
candles and dropped on her knees as Friar Stephen laid 
his sacred Burden on the snowy cloth. A moment later 
the friar was bending over Gordon. 

“You know me? Do not try to speak. Just bow your 
head a little if you understand. I am going to give you 
a sacrament. Do you know what Extreme Unction is?” 


BY THE MARGIN OF THE RIVER 


285 


The eyes brightened, and the head bowed. Then a 
puzzled look came and a gasping word, “First—Con— 
fession. ’ ’ 

“If there is anything to confess. You have nothing 
to tell, have you ? ’’ 

“I can’t remember. Maybe—I didn’t—have—time— 
to—be—bad. ’ ’ 

“Blessed are the days when we have no time to be 
bad! So, do not worry. Say over and over: ‘My Jesus 
I love Thee. Forgive me.’ Then he anointed him— 
clear, boyish eyes, not much of evil had they seen—inno¬ 
cent, boyish ears, needing purification from the poison 
Godfrey had poured into them, little else of sin had they 
heard—restless, roving feet, not far had they gone 
astray. When Friar Stephen finished the prayers he 
spoke again. “There is another sacrament for you, 
Holy Communion.” 

How the eyes brightened! ‘ ‘ Now ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, now, son.” 

‘ ‘ It—was only—the—other—day—and—He’s— ’ ’ 

“Save your strength for your prayers, child. The 
good God knows His little boy needs Him; that is why 
He comes so soon.” 

Gordon’s bright eyes followed Friar Stephen till they 
rested on the Sacred Host; nothing else he seemed to see. 
When Margaret raised him on the pillow, his voice was 
sweet—almost strong. 

“0 Jesus—now I’m glad—You are coming—for now 
—I know—just a tiny wee bit—of what You suffered— 
and I’m glad—oh, I’m glad!” 

“Aye,” murmured Muckle John, “an’ tell Him yer 
father an’ mither an’ us we a’ ha’ need o’ our laddie. 




286 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Mayhap Hell leave ye bide wi’ us, for the good Lord is 
kind.” 

The light in the wan face faded. Jean sprang from 
her knees with a cry. Margaret’s head sank on the 
couch, her hand clenched the crucifix; but Stephen bend¬ 
ing over the couch whispered. “Sleeping, little mother, 
only sleeping with the good Lord in his breast.” 



N 



CHAPTER NUMBER SEVENTEEN 
THE LAST BLESSING 













Chapter XVII 
THE LAST BLESSING 







t < 


< (■ 


< i i 


HE afternoon sun danced over the 
rippling frith and through the door 
of the cottage, cheering those who 
watched by the sleeper. Suddenly 
John’s great frame blocked the 
doorway. 

My lady,” he whispered, ‘‘if ye be still minded to 
go wi’ the morning tide, would it’ no’ be better to take 
the little laird aboard early. He might get a wee bit 
used to the swayin ’ o ’ the boat at anchor before he must 
feel the swellin’ o’ the sea.” 

: You are wise, John. Have you a stretcher?” 

These arms be good for that job, lady.” And slip¬ 
ping his hands under the mattress he raised the child, 
couch and all. How tender rough hands can be! There 
was no sign of pain on Gordon’s face, but his eyes opened 
wonderingly. 

“You are going to Daddy Shannon’s, dear,” whis¬ 
pered his mother. “Muckle John will take us.” 

“Daddy Shannon’s!” The joy those faint words 
breathed! “0 big John, you can do everything, can’t 
you ? ’ ’ 

“Na, my little laird; but I’ll do what I can.” 

The boy did not answer. He had fallen asleep again. 
Nor did he awaken while John carried him swiftly, 
steadily down the path to the wharf. That wharf was 
of Muckle John’s making and, like the Nancy Kitts, it 


289 






290 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


was solid, strong, and somewhat ugly. In his heart of 
hearts the skipper wished the honor of bearing the laird 
in his own boat; but the St. Andrew was larger, and 
perhaps would ride the great waves more steadily. 11 The 
St. Andrew is best for the laddie,” he said to comfort 
himself as he strode over the swaying plank, with the 
well loved burden balanced so evenly that the sleeper did 
not wake till he laid him on a swinging pallet in the 
cabin. Then the blue eyes opened. 

“Big John, 0 big John, you can do everything,” and 
smiling he dreamed again. 

A little after midnight, all the food with whatever 
else could be taken, was stored below decks. The rem¬ 
nant of the outlawed clan knelt upon the sand. One by 
one they passed into John’s cottage to pour into Friar 
Stephen’s patient ear their sorrows and their sins; com¬ 
ing out again, clean of soul and brave of heart, to meet 
the perils of the unknown sea. Then the poor altar was 
prepared; the holy Sacrifice offered solemnly, silently, 
swiftly, lest some sacrilegious band steal upon them 
through the darkness. To each was given the Bread of 
the strong; and in silence still, the folk walked down the 
wharf, across the swinging planks and slipped below 
decks. Only Friar Stephen and old Edwin stood upon 
the shore. 

The sentinel on the north tower of Castle Ravenhurst 
watched the fishers putting out to sea in the gray dawn. 

‘ ‘ Fair day comin ’, ” he muttered. ‘ ‘ Muckle John ne ’er 
takes twa boats, but ’tis a fair day,” and nothing else 
he said or thought. Nor did he see the tall, gaunt figure 
in the long gray cloak on the rocky shoulder of Ben 
Ender holding out his anointed hands in one last bless¬ 
ing as the outlaws of Ravenhurst rounded the headland 


V 


THE LAST BLESSING 


291 


where the Lang-Sword had swum the frith from shore 
to shore. 

And as the outlawed clan sought refuge in Mary’s 
Land beyond the perilous sea, Friar Stephen turned and 
strode into the forest. Hound-tracked, starving and 
alone, he wandered from the wind-swept glens of the 
upper mountain to the moldering ruin in the wood, from 
the stagnant marshes of the frith-side to the barrens 
beyond the castle; happy if he found some soul who even 
in the last dread hour would lay aside his sins and make 
a tardy peace with God. Just when the Master called 
to him, “My son, it is enough,” no one knows; but when 
the snowdrifts were thawing on Ben Ender one bright 
spring morning, a hunter found some bones wrapped in 
a long gray cloak—not enough proof to bring the finder 
any blood-money. Yet, when the word was passed 
around, faithful Edwin’s palsied old mother wept, know¬ 
ing that no priest would ever come to her poor hut 
through the dark night to shrive her yearning soul and 
prepare it for its journey into eternity. 







SEQUEL 

CHAPTER NUMBER ONE 

IN THE HOLLOW 
OF GOD’S HAND 








SEQUEL 
Chapter I 

IN THE HOLLOW OF GOD’S HAND 


UT to the west sailed the St. Andrew 
and the Nancy Kitts. For three 
months waves raced and winds 
sang. Watchers hoped each hour 
for sight of land. Then with a sud¬ 
den snarling roar the storm came 
down. Days they battled, beaten backward toward 
mid-ocean; but the storm was merely gathering its 
legions. In the black hours of night the fiends of the air 
burst their tethers. The mast of the Kitts snapped 
short off, and left her a helpless log, tossed up and down 
by the waves. The St. Andrew lost her mast also; and, 
perhaps because she was the older vessel, she sprang a 
leak. Yet when the morning came and the storm drew 
off both hulks were afloat. 

The Kitts held her calking—she was of Muekle John’s 
making; but the doomed St. Andrew barely lasted till 
her living freight was shifted to the lugger. Before any¬ 
thing else could be saved, she lurched under. Even the 
pitiful chest of gold went with her. 

“Still,” said Sir James, “let us thank ©ur Father 
who ruleth the waves—no lives were lost!” 

Then followed weeks when the derelict of the Kitts 
floated on sun-bright waves. Water was doled out in 
spoonfuls. The seed corn went as food. 



295 



296 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Still,” said Sir James, as the eyes of the famished 
clan turned toward him, “let us trust in our Father 
who is in heaven. The sea and the waves lie in the hol¬ 
low of His hand! ’ ’ 

Muekle John had stood at the wheel through all the 
raging darkness of the night and the yet wilder tempest 
of the day. Now, once more in the stormy night, the 
wind roared about him driving the sleet in hissing sheets. 
In the blackness ahead, long writhing lines of white foam 
hissed as they rose and fell. 

Peter, clinging, sliding, stumbling as he fought his 
way across the deck, reached the skipper’s side. 

“Give me the wheel!” he panted. 

“Did I tell ye ‘no’ an hour since?” 

“Ye’ll give it to me, or I’ll take it from ye!” The 
mate’s hand gripped the spokes. 

“Take yer hand off that or ye’ll ken who’s skipper o’ 
the Nancy Kitts!” 

Peter drew back. “Man alive, even if ye be Muekle 
John-o’-the-Cleuth, there be an end o’ what ye can do. 
Fit to fall fer weariness!—but I might as weel arg’ wi’ 
the mast!—better, for the mast broke—but he will no’ 
give in till—aye he’ll break his ain sel’ an’ so we will. 
Ha’ a pint o’ common sense, lad, give me that wheel 
afore ye faint!” 

The grim lips were motionless, the whole frame tense, 
only the eyes moved following the seething lines ahead. 
The skipper had no time for words. 

“John, ye canno’ keep this pace! Give me that wheel 
an’ rest! Six months an’ mair since ye ha’ known what 
a night’s sleep means—shake yer head now—for that 
ye ha’ na time for talk—I ken weel how ye past the first 


IN THE HOLLOW OP GOD’S HAND 


297 


three months. Oh, I ken weel ye ha’ nathing at a’ to 
do in those days. A langshore fisher’s boat breastin’ 
the deep sea, a crew of land-lubbers, it goes wi ’out sayin ’ 
that the skipper had nathing at a’ to do. But, since 
the great storm struck us—since the St. Andrew went 
down three months ago, when ha’ ye rested? Aye, shake 
jyer head now! Is it restin’ after a weary day to fling 
yersel ’ on the deck, only to spring to yer feet every time 
a spar creaks ? Give me that wheel! Will ye never trust 
me mair since I lost the St. Andrew?” 

“Dinna be worriting!” The skipper’s words jerked 
out to the tune of the wheel. 

“Yer killin’ yersel’, John! Will ye no’ trust me once 
mair? Give me the wheel! Ye canna hald out, man!” 

“I’ll hald out! Pray more and prate less! Do ye 
no’ ken God sees us? He knows the ship’s aleak, the 
sick lie dyin’ in the hold, the water’s spent, the last 
chest o’ mouldy grain a’ but gone! God kens I must 
lia’ strength an’ He’ll give it.” 

“I’m thinkin’ God may will that we go to Davy an’ 
no’ to America.” 

“Well—so be it!” 

“God’s mercy! what’s that?” 

A writhing, screaming whiteness rose out of the sea 
before them. The mighty frame of the skipper clenched 
upon the wheel. The Nancy Kitts sprang in the air like a 
living thing, slipped into the trough of the wave, righted 
herself, veered, mounted the next, bow to crest; and 
the booming, seething whiteness swirled down the lar¬ 
board bow, sending a wilderness of foaming waters tum¬ 
bling across the deck. The thunder of a hundred cannon 
to starboard—not a cable’s length from the bow—a wild 


298 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


groveling thing—fierce as the spirit of the tempest—soft, 
fleecy, shimmering as the froth of moonlight. 

“Reef to larboard!” shrieked Peter aghast. 

The white-faced skipper clenched the wheel, reversed. 
The Kitts, turned to starboard and groaning in every 
wrenched timber, plunged madly onward. 

* ‘ 0 God! The rocks of an unknown harbor on such a 
night as this! But the wind’s falling, John! Thank 
God, the wind’s falling!” 

“Na, we ha’ turned the headland! Hist! Yon’s a 
growler! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Under water, na, what’s yon ? ’ ’ 

“Hist! Di’ ye hear that scluchin’ sound?” 

“Reef?” 

“Na! Struck!” 

“Mother o’ mercy!” 

Peter lurched forward. The roaring swirl carried 
him out. He clutched something—the waters above, be¬ 
low, around booming in his ears—still he clung. The 
fury grew less. Peter struggled to his feet on the 
trembling deck. The skipper still held the wheel. 

‘ ‘ Speed ye weel! ’ ’ gasped the mate. “ It’s Davy! ’ ’ 

“Na, America! Get word to those below, on a bar 
in the lee o’ rocks, tide nigh the turn. If we can float 
half an hour we ’re safe! ’ ’ 

Peter began to crawl toward the hatches. The waves 
broke in foaming sheets over the starboard rail, seething 
across the deck. The eddy caught and whirled him like 
a bit of driftwood over the larboard rail. There he 
clung till the waters passed, crept back to the slippery 
deck, dragging himself hand over hand. Perhaps ten 
feet were won, the hatches opened, a man, stumbling up, 


IN THE HOLLOW OF GOD’S HAND 


299 


grasped a rigging line—staggered, fell, was on his knees, 
when the billows roared over the rail. Peter, clinging 
to a rope, spun like a trout hooked in the rapids. Some¬ 
thing came through the surging waters. The mate 
stretched out his hand—another clutched it in the dark¬ 
ness. For a moment they swung in the blinding swirl 
of water. The wave was passing. Peter could see dimly 
the straight-shouldered frame, the white hair of Sir 
James. The earl had gained his feet. 

“Boats, Peter!” he gasped. “Are there any for the 
women and the children?” 

“Na, my lord! The danger’s no’ so great!” 

“Water pouring into the hold! She can not float an 
hour! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ She can float the half of one, then. The tide is nigh 
the turn.” 

The hatch lifted. Wat came stumbling up. The earl’s 
voice rang above the roaring waters. 

“Go back, lad; bid those below to pray but not to 
fear. We are on a bar. The tide is turning.” 

The skipper’s voice came bellowing from the wheel. 
The anchor of the Nancy Kitts slid into the foam. Above 
the roar of wind and the thunder of breakers, came the 
joyous voices of the sailors tramping around with the 
capstan bars and singing the wild old song. 

Yeave ho! Yeave ho! 

Homeward boun'! Yeave—ho! 

Anchor's down! Yeave—ho! 

Yeave—ho! Yeave—ho! 

The wrinkled face of old Donald appeared at the 
hatches. 

“Aye, sir! We be anchored in America, my lord. 
Bow wedged ’twixt a reef and a bar, an’ two rocks 



300 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 



rammed into the stem; we be anchored, sir, an’ no doubt 
o’ that! If the waves dinna beat her to pieces afore the 
tide goes out—a weel, she’s o’ Muckle John’s making. 
God grant she’ll hald together!” 

“On your knees and pray that she may!” came the 
ringing voice of the earl. Then those on the trembling 
deck, who fought with the wind and the sea, and those 
huddled in the galley who watched the black, gleaming 
water as it crept toward them from the darkness below, 
sent up their cry to Him who holds the sea in the hol¬ 
low of His hand. 







SEQUEL 

CHAPTER NUMBER TWO 
AMERICA BUT WHERE 


i 






\ 










Chapter II 

AMERICA BUT WHERE 



HE fury of the waves began to 
abate. The storm had spent itself. 
In the gray dawn far out beyond 
the cape, the cannon of the waves 
were still booming, but within the 
cove, the ebbing tide had left the 
Nancy Kitts high and dry upon the bar. The rain still 
came in fitful gusts, but each seemed weaker than the 
last. Then the morning sun burst through the banks of 
clouds, flushed the foam, and a thousand rubies gleamed 
above the reef. The black rocks of the headland had 
each a golden crest. Swift rays of trembling light 
danced across the mile of shallow, tossing sea lying 
between the bar and the shore. What shore ? New Eng¬ 
land, or Virginia, or the Spanish Isles? The steep gray 
cliffs were silent and solitary. The folk of the clan were 
all upon deck eagerly scanning the new world outspread 
before them. 

“Aye, Muckle John/’ cried Peter, “when be the dories 
goin’? The waves are nathing now. I be fit to go wild 
wi’ longing to set foot on yon sand.” 

“The dories be goin’ when Sir James gives the word. 
Dinna be frettin’ him! Can ye no’ see he’s worriting?” 

Sir James turned sharply. Perhaps the words had 
reached him. As he spoke there was a sorrow in his 
voice, an agony in his eyes. 


303 




304 THE OUTLAWS OP RAVENHURST 


“For the past few weeks I have feared that, instead 
of saving the elan, I have betrayed it. To speak of my 
thoughts, while as yet we were at sea, would have been 
useless. There was sorrow enough at hand without add¬ 
ing the fear of trouble to come. Now, I must speak 
plainly. We must face the danger with open eyes.” 

“M!y laird,” cried Muckle John, “dangers there be 
no doubt, an’ hard blows an’ a’ that. We be knowin’ it, 
sir. ’Tis part o ’ what we undertook; we ’ll stand to the 
oars. But as for your betrayin’ us, sir, we—” 

“Not wilfully, John, still I know the fate of the 
colonies. In New England and in Virginia, more than 
half the people died of starvation before the first crops 
could be harvested. I meant to ward off such disaster 
by loading the Nancy Kitts with grain to be used for 
seed, or for food during the first winter in case we might 
want. The little chest of gold on board the St. Andrew 
was to have been used in buying farms. Now, penniless, 
I bring you to strange shores. May God forgive my 
imprudence.” 

“My laird, was it you who sent the St. Andrew to 
Davy Jones’ locker?” 

“John! Watch your words, man! Who is it that rules 
the storm?” 

“I’m no’ meanin’ to fly in the face o’ God, sir. All’s 
weel that He sends, an’ His ways are best; but why be 
ye makin’ out yer to blame that we’re in sair straits?” 

“Ye might be puttin’ blame on me, sir,” cried Peter. 
“If fault there was—” 

“Man alive, can ye never forgive yersel’? Let’s be 
thankin’ God that we had the Nancy Kitts since the 
St. Andrew went down. Mastless and leakin’, she ha’ 


AMERICA BUT WHERE 


305 


floated ns to land. Three months driftin’ a few poor 
knots, we’d ha’ starved afore now but that she carried 
the seed corn. God has held his hand out o’er us these 
weary days, an ’ He ’ll no ’ leave us now. There he many 
strong arms in the clan, sir, an’ one fine head—that’s 
the laird’s. Please God, there’ll be no starved bairns 
when spring comes.” 

“Father!” 

A thin, yellow hand touched the arm of Sir James. 
Joyous eyes looked up at him, joyous though the black 
circles beneath them were deep. The old boyish laugh 
rang out from the lips pale and cracked—rang, and then 
stopped, for pain almost choked it. There was a burn¬ 
ing in the earl’s throat, an agony in his eyes; but he 
smiled at the eager boy as he answered: 

“Well, son?” 

* ‘ Ah, father, if you will let David and me have a dory, 
we’ll get some oysters. I know how to rake for them. 
There must be plenty in such a cove as this. If you will 
let us—” 

“By and by, son. The exploring party must go first.” 
Then seeing the disappointment in the lad’s eyes— 
“Both of us can not go with the first dory. That would 
leave mother here alone. She must feel cold down in the 
damp cabin, but the sun has already warmed the deck. 
Suppose you ask Jean and Anna to help you make a 
couch for her up here.” 

Gordon ran gaily toward the hatches, that is, he ran a 
dozen steps; then, with a hand upon his side, leaned 
against the stump of broken mast just for a moment, 
straightened himself with a shiver, and climbed slowly, 
very slowly, down the ladder. 


306 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


‘‘God’s blessin’ on him!” murmured Peter. “There 
he was at the pumps last night beggin’ to help, an’ that 
pain stabbin’ his side wi’ every breath. He’s got more 
grit ner twenty men.” 

Sir James turned sharply. “Muckle John.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

“Is the large dory seaworthy?” 

“It is, sir.” 

“Lower it and put in five muskets with powder and 
shot, a spyglass, and a compass. You will go with me 
in search of a place suitable for a camp.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

“Wat and Will!” 

“Aye, sir.” 

“You will climb that tall cliff to scout. Silence and 
caution before all things. We can not fight with Indians 
or Spaniards now. If any sign of human beings be seen, 
give warning at once; if not, remain as sentries.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

“Peter?” 

“Aye, sir.” 

“You will guard the dory. Be ready to push off at a 
moment’s notice.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

“Silence as soon as the boat leaves the ship. No un¬ 
necessary noise on land—such as shooting game if any 
be seen—till we know if the country be inhabited or 
not.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

Ten minutes later the dory slid from the bar—Sir 
James standing midships, the spyglass scanning the dis¬ 
tant cliffs, Peter at the helm, Muckle John and his 
brawny sons rowing. Gordon, perched on a coil of rope 


AMERICA BUT WHERE 


307 


near his mother’s couch, watched till the boat was but 
a spot on the heaving bay. 

“They will be on land in a few moments now. The 
birds in the forest will all be singing. Oh, mother, don’t 
you wish you were with them! She is asleep.” 

Lady Margaret opened her eyes and smiled. 

“No, son. How warm the air is! You love America, 
laddie, and so shall we.” Clasping the boy’s yellow hand 
in hers, she closed her eyes again. 

“It is queer how things turn round. When we came 
on board, Muckle John carried me, and you were taking 
care of your boy. When we go on shore, Muckle John 
will carry you, and I shall take care of my mother.” 

An hour later Peter and the skipper came back. The 
place for a camp had been chosen. No Indians nor white 
men had been seen, in fact no living thing. Then came 
the hurried unloading. Time must not be lost for the 
next tide would strew the shore with the broken planks 
of the Nancy Kitts. 

As soon as possible the sick were brought from the 
ship. They could not be laid upon the wet sand. 
Branches piled on empty casks, covered with mats and 
coarse bedding, sheltered from wind and sun by canvas 
cut from an old sail—scarcely a fitting couch for Mar¬ 
garet of Douglas, Countess of Ravenhurst, daughter of 
Sir Wilfrid of the line of Sir Archibald Bell-The-Cat— 
and yet, perhaps, most fitting since the ballads of ancient 
days called the women of that famous name, ‘ ‘ The Ladies 
of the Bleeding Heart.” More noble by nature than by 
blood, Lady Margaret whispered, smiling faintly even 
yet, though the deep blue Douglas eyes were dark with 
pain. 


308 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“You have been so gentle and faithful, Muekle John, 
God bless you!” 

“It’s clumsy enough I ha’ been, lady. Only I was a 
wishin’ I could pay back a wee bit the care ye gave me 
years agone.” 

“It would be odd payment. I was that nurse who 
went to sleep. But, John, this soft quilt—you have not 
so good a one for Benson. Lay it on her couch and do 
not let her know. That frail old woman must not have 
so rough a bed. No, but you must, John. See they are 
bringing her now.” And the leader of the outlawed 
clansmen, wiping his eyes with a great hairy hand, did 
as Lady Margaret bade him. Then he went back to his 
work. 

Down by the water’s edge there was bustle and hurry 
—pale women and meager children searching among the 
rocks for clams and crawfish—dories plying to and from 
the wreck—gaunt men carrying the sick, or struggling 
with burdens; for what little of value still remained 
must be dragged above the reach of the tide. Weary, 
miserable, starving, yet a smile lit every face—th ankf ul 
for solid earth beneath their feet—thankful for freedom 
to worship the Crucified. Oh, those noble foundation 
stones of a nation! 

Peter steadied a load on his shoulder and called to 
Muckle John. 

“Would ye look at the little Gordon? Fit to drop, 
but still luggin’ yon bundle!” 

“ It’s a wonder ye did no ’ take it from him. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Take it from him ? He will no ’ give it to me! ‘ Na, * 
says he, ‘the men are working. David’s tired and my 
father—the others have not given up.’ He’d die afore 


AMERICA BUT WHERE 


309 


he’d give up. Ye ken weel the sayin’, ‘There is a will 
in the house of Gordon.’ ” 

“Mayhap there be a ‘will’ in the house o’ Gordon, an’ 
mayhap there’s a ‘won’t’ in the house o’ Muckle John. 
He’s goin’ to stop. Where be the laddie? Oh, I see, yon 
by the big rock!” 

Then the skipper strode off across the sand following 
a little figure bending under a load. Muckle John was 
beside him in a few moments and suddenly lifted the 
load. 

“Oh, please don’t! That’s the third they have taken 
from me. I am not helping at all.” 

“My little laird,—Worrit noo! I forgot again. It’s 
no use. I’ll never remember the title was laid aside 
when we set foot in America. ’Tis the little laird ye’ll 
always be to me. But, laddie, ha’ some wee bit o’ com¬ 
mon sense! Has yer father no’ enough to worrit him 
wi’out ye makin’ yersel’ sick again?” 

“But there is so much to do. You are tired—” 

“Listen, laddie, ye go up by yer mither an’ rest 
awhile. ’ ’ 

“No, when father and you rest, I will.” 

“There be Jeanie by the tent. She’s wavin’. Mayhap 
yer mither needs something. ’ ’ 

Muckle John had touched the right chord. The boy 
hurried with what poor speed he could, up to the camp. 
Jeanie wanted water from the spring. He was busy now 
and happy. It was but a little while till Gordon slipped 
under the tent flap, a battered pewter mug in his hand. 

“We are turning things around.” The lad had found 
a cheery smile to cover his own pain. “Now I can take 
care of you. Is there anything I could get for you, 
mother ? ’ ’ 


310 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“No, son. How good the water is! Thank you, dear.” 
She smiled, pressed his hand and closed her eyes again. 

“Well, son? How is your mother?” whispered Sir 
James, as Gordon came back from the tent. 

“If she only had something that she could eat—” 

The earl’s face flushed painfully. It was hard to bear 
such poverty as this. 

“Son, we must not complain. The best has already 
been given to us. We must remember, child, we are 
really beggars depending upon the bounty of the clan. 
They are too loyal to speak of it, even to think—but it is 
true. I am a worn-out man and penniless. We must 
face the truth, son.” 

“I did not mean that, father. Any way, there is no 
one from whom to buy. What if the gold did go down ? 
But, if she had some soup—a little venison—even a 
rabbit ? ’ ’ 

“Child, the men have watched all day for game.” 

“There is none down here on the sand—but in the 
woods, father, the storm has sent them to the forest.” 

‘ ‘ The men must unload the ship before the tide comes 
in. None can be spared for hours to come.” 

‘ ‘ They won’t let me work, so let me hunt. I could get 
a rabbit or so with my sling even if you do not want a 
gun fired.” 

“No, no! You must not go into the woods alone. If 
you were lost.” 

‘ ‘ But, father, you see I was bred in the woods. Don’t 
say no, father. I won’t get lost! ’ * 

“Near Shannon’s farm in Maryland, doubtless, you 
could find your way; but, remember, these strange for¬ 
ests may stretch to the far off Spanish lands, or—it may 
be—to the vast South Sea. You are rash, Gordon.” 


AMERICA BUT WHERE 


311 


“But—oh, please, father! Baddy Shannon taught us 
how to find our way in unknown woods. I know how to 
blaze a trail, but on short trips he said to find a land¬ 
mark and not get out of sight of it. 0 father, truly I 
do know how to take care of myself. Mother needs the 
soup. Oh, please, father! Don’t say no!” 

Sir James looked at the pleading child, then at the 
canvas stretched above the sick. “You will give me your 
word not to go out of sight of your landmark, even 
once?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“You will come back in an hour, whether you find 
game or not?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“It is a great risk, but the sick need food. Well, you 
may go and God bless you, son.” 

Gordon clambered up the bank and made his way 
steadily toward the cliffs which bounded the beach. A 
year before he would have climbed those rocks for the 
very joy of the struggle. Now it was slow, painful work. 
A half dozen times he sat down to rest, head against the 
cliff, hand upon his throbbing side; but the thought of 
that gentle mother under the old sail, brought him wear¬ 
ily to his feet again. 

At last the climb was over. He stood on the wooded 
height—before him, the forest stretching its endless, 
leafy arches—below, the wreck still clinging to the bar, 
the dories plying to and fro—a tiny dwarf, that was 
Muckle John—Sir James struggling with a load. A 
lump burned in Gordon’s throat. 

“You will not always work as you do now. I’ll be a 
man some day, father. Now for that landmark! Not a 


312 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


good one in sight! One knoll just like his brother! 
Might get one from a tree top!” 

Climbing a tree was fun a year ago. Oh, well, this 
was not the boy of a year ago. His head throbbed with 
dizzy pain as he struggled from branch to branch, not 
daring to look down, resting often when the pain shot 
through him with sickening misery. 

“I must be almost at the top now,” he panted and 
raised his head, leaned forward, gasped, and stared again 
at a little bluff outlined against the blue October sky. 
“Sutter’s Knob. It’s Sutter’s Knob! We’re not five 
miles from Shannon’s! ” 




SEQUEL 

CHAPTER NUMBER THREE 

OUR LADY’S HOME BEYOND 

THE SEA 


















V 















Chapter III 

OUR LADY’S HOME BEYOND THE SEA 



OW he reached the ground, Gordon 
never knew. His next memory was 
of trees flying madly and that stab¬ 
bing pain telling him he could run 
no more. 


“I’m not worth a last year’s 
bird’s-nest,” he muttered. “I can’t go at all. Well, 
it’s slow and sometime, or fast and never.” 

The lad was walking steadily in spite of the pain, 
looking straight ahead, thrusting aside the long sprays 
of blackberry vine, fruitless, all but leafless, in the bright 
October sun; crashing on through burrs and goldenrod, 
sending the milkweed fairies fluttering before him as he 
passed. The way had been uphill—endlessly uphill, but 
for how many hours had he been struggling? Had he 
failed to sight trees, and so let his treacherous left foot 
lead him in a circle? What were those whirling black 
things dancing in the air before him? Were they crickets 
that chirped so loudly through the silence—the frogs— 
or—was it only the blood throbbing in his temples ? His 
foot caught in a tangled vine, and the dull pain of the 
fall relieved, at last, that stabbing in his side. 

All day long a pair of sharp eyes watched from the 
branch above. There lay the finest nut Frisky Bushisky 
had seen all autumn, but it was only an inch from a 
boy’s hand, a boy that lay all day sprawled there among 
the daisies, but still; surely, he must be sleeping, but, 
but Frisky left the nut alone. 


315 








316 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


Over and oyer and yet once more the gray squirrel 
whisked from branch to hill slope and up to the nest 
again stocking his winter pantry, but ever with one eye 
on that wonderful nut so near the boy’s hand. The 
shadow crept over the russet vines and the blackberry 
bushes were in the deepening shade. Down among the 
daisies, the burrs, and the goldenrod, where the Brown- 
head lay, it was almost dark. 

Then down the honeysuckle vine darted Frisky, around 
the berry bushes too thorny for tiny feet to cross, under 
the great burdock, and between the milkweeds, till he 
stood among the goldenrod, and the nut was within reach 
at last. A glance at the half-closed hand of the dreaded 
boy, an eager trembling of the tiny body, a paw stretched 
out timidly; just one touch, the nut was rolling; another, 
and he had it clutched between his paws. He perked his 
head this way and that in triumph. Then for very love 
of daring, Frisky Bushisky sprang over the Brown-head 
and back, a merry game; then seated himself on the 
quiet brow to enjoy his hard won supper. The Brown- 
head was a strangely quiet thing—never a boy so still! 

Suddenly, the lithe body of Frisky stiffened; the nut 
dropped; his eyes seemed fastened; for there in the 
daisies two shining spots moved in a glittering spiral, 
halted and trembled, came nearer and circled, retreated 
a moment, then nearer again. Frisky knew that he 
should fly while yet there was time; knew and yet 
watched that glittering spiral; knew, yet heard, that 
threatening rattle; saw the coil slowly tightening, the 
mottled head rise with red fangs outstretched; knew— 
but too late—the snake was upon him! 

‘‘Ouch! cold!” The outflung hand closed sharply, 
but Gordon’s head rose only to sink again, too dazed to 


OUR LADY’S HOME BEYOND THE SEA 317 


know what had roused him. “Cold!” he muttered 
again, shivering. “Mother! No, Shannon’s, I was going 
to Daddy Shannon!” 

Grasping the twisted grape vine he rose wearily. 

“Going—I was going—God help me!—My head’s a 
windmill. I’m going to Shannon’s. Must have fallen or 
something. Which way was it? Uphill? No, there’s 
the sun—that’s east—from the cove to Shannon’s it’s 
north—uphill is south then—and I was going uphill. 
Oh, my head!—Move now and I’ll lose myself. Land¬ 
mark? Surely I had one—what was it?—Oh! Sutter’s 
Knob! The trees are too thick to see it. Maybe I was 
climbing the hill to get a sight—going south just for the 
time. Perhaps I might see the knob from that point of 
rocks, yonder.” 

Gordon stepped forward with dizzy uncertainty. This 
climbing was weary business, but at last he gained the 
spot, and his glad shout sent all the squirrels on the hill 
slope scampering. 

“The pool! That’s our fishing hole, under the alders! 
There’s the tree we climbed when the bear was after us! 
And—whether I’m going north, south, east, or west— 
there’s the path to Shannon’s!” 

The lad sprang forward only to sink with the pain, 
then struggling up again he staggered onward. The old 
path followed the endless winding of the creek. Was 
ever way so long? Were ever feet so slow? 

“Is it dark under the trees, or is it I that’s blind?” 
Gordon muttered as he stumbled on. “There never 
was a bat more stupid. The trees are thinning out ahead. 
It must be where the valley widens into the slash, and 
the clearing’s just beyond. Surely!—yes—between the 
oaks—that’s the new field. Daddy has it stumped 


318 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


already. That cloud?—fire!—no—but the sky’s all red! 
—the sun!—oh, it couldn’t be going down now!—it’s not 
noon yet!” 

The lad broke into a staggering run. Hardly a dozen 
more steps and the old scene burst upon him—the long, 
low cabin nested among trees, the orchard and the wide 
stretch of stubbled field, the shocks of corn and the fod¬ 
der stacks, the pasture land and fallow—over all, red 
clouds afloat in the glowing sky. 

“Sunset!” he gasped leaning against the great oak. 
“Sunset! I must have lain in the grass all day and 
mother has had no food.” 

On again, down the slope from the woodland, over the 
bridge in the hollow—the path seemed weedy—was it 
that Scottish lanes were oftener trodden and better kept? 
No sound came from the farmyard. The wide bam 
doors were closed, the yard empty, the bucket overturned 
near the edge of the well. A stifling horror gripped him. 
Had things gone wrong at Shannon’s also? It had never 
been still before. A dog sprang from the bushes with 
joyously wagging tail. 

“0 Shep! Old Shep!” Gordon slid through the 
bars, and the dog was upon him. “Don’t, old dog! 
Old Shep, don’t! I can’t roll around like I used to, it 
hurts me in my side.” The friendly brown eyes were 
full of pity; dogs understand so much. “What’s the 
matter, Sheppy? Why is everything so still?” 

But the dog only smiled dog smiles, casting uneasy 
glances toward the house. Along the side of the cabin 
and around toward the kitchen door, the two friends 
passed together. A sound floated to them, low, murmur¬ 
ing. The door was open. Gordon stepped noiselessly on 


OUR LADY’S HOME BEYOND THE SEA 319 


the worn stone sill. Then a smile sweetened his troubled 
face as he knelt on the step whispering softly, 

Bead time, only bead time; and even you, old doggy, 
know we must be still at prayers.” 

Daddy knelt by the fireplace with the rosary in his 
blunt, scarred hand. Joel w T as just behind him close to 
Which and Tother, and all the rest of the red-headed 
dozen knelt, each in the same old place. One change 
there was. Mammy no longer rocked the cradle with her 
foot, keeping time to the murmur of the prayers ; but he 
that used to crow within it, knelt beside her, wobbling 
from side to side on his fat little knees, chewing her 
homespun apron string, his shrill voice sounding above 
the Shannon chorus, ‘‘Muver uv Dod, p’a ’er ut 
’inners.’ ’ 

The last “Glory be to the Father” came from daddy’s 
fervent lips. Rosary was over—no—he drew the cross 
back again beneath his broken thumb nail, and his voice 
was deep and low. 

“Second rosary in honor of our Lady, Star of the Sea, 
for the eternal well-being and safe return of our 
George. ’ ’ 

A choking sob clutched Gordon’s throat. 

“They never forgot! Oh, I knew they wouldn’t!” 

Then the shore rose up before him—the weary, starving 
folk—the sick and dying sheltered by that ragged sail— 
and all the pain and sorrow welled up in the old, old cry, 
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.” 

Joel twisted on his knees, and daddy, hearing the 
sound, turned with one hand upraised to punish the 
offender; but the hand dropped; the rosary fell clinking 
on the hearth. 

“Mother of mercy! Would ye look at the doorstep! 


320 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


But come in, child, come in! Lizzie, get a stool, girl! 
Don’t stand starin’! Can’t you see he’s fit to faint!” 

“Never mind, daddy, I’m all right. But if you can 
help—” 

“Who?” 

‘ ‘ The folk at the cove! ’ ’ 

“What folk?” 

“Oh, they’re all on the sand—the clan, I mean, and 
my father and mother—if she’s living. The ship ran on 
a bar last—” 

‘ ‘ Hold on a bit ? How many be there ?—and where ? ’ ’ 

“About fifty, not counting the ten that are sick—” 

“You mean fifty draggin’ yet and a dozen dyin’—now 
where ? ’ ’ 

“The cove—where Alder Creek comes in—but not way 
up there—it’s about four miles south from Sutter*s 
Knob—1 think—” 

“Get the bays, Joel! You ought a’ had them out 
a’ready! Haven’t you any sense at all? The light 
wagon!—the heavy one’d stick in the sand. D ’ye hear ? ’ ’ 
he shouted after the flying boy. “Tom, that haunch of 
venison’s in the smoke house—three or four hams and a 
bacon or so. Matt’ll help you. Ed, run up to the wind¬ 
mill, sack some of that fresh corn meal. I’ll help you 
carry it down.” 

“But, daddy, how did you know? I hadn’t told you 
yet.” 

“Lord bless you! Starvation written on your face, 
child. Lizzie, is that you starin’ there? Get the boy 
some supper. Haven’t you any wits?” 

But mammy’s bony hand was on the boy’s forehead. 

“No, Lizzie, heavy food won’t do. There’s fever—” 


OUR LADY’S HOME BEYOND THE SEA 321 


“Wait a minute?” broke in daddy. “Are they on 
the shore, or up the bluff?” 

“Down on the sand, but out of reach of the tide.” 

“Might have a hard pull through the sand. You, 
Which and Tother, get out the mules! You can ride 
them till they’re needed. Don’t leave no straps flapping, 
and watch out the gray don’t kick you. He’s been skit¬ 
tish all day, consarn him. You, Sam, come to the root 
house with me. Get a couple of potato sacks on the 
way—” 

Mammy’s voice could be heard at last, calling through 
the trap door for some one in the cellar. 

“No, the last pan’s the jersey’s. Them’s the fresh 
eggs there in the basket. Got the blackberry brandy, 
yet? Annie, yes, bring it here, child. Molly, run up in 
the loft and get my herbs and my sun bonnet. Get yer 
own w r hile yer about it. That’s a good girl, Lizzie. Now 
hand me the cup. Pine eggnog—couldn’t have made it 
better myself.” 

4 ‘ 0 mammy, don’t worry about me, ’ ’ cried the boy as 
her homely face turned toward him. “I’m all right, but 
if you could fix something good like that for mother—” 

44 For the landsake! Don’t you think there’s more 
than one cup of milk and one egg on the Shannon farm ? 
You drink this, and don’t fear mammy won’t take care 
of any folks of yours that need it—least of all your real 
mother, whoever she may be.” 

“But, O mammy!”—a spasm of terror crossed his 
face. “0 mammy, I forgot! 1 promised father to be 
back in an hour—that was early this morning—but I 
saw Sutter’s Knob and—” 

44 You clean forgot everythin’ but to run like a deer 


322 THE OUTLAWS OP RAVENHURST 


for yer mammy. Never mind; I’ll stand ’twixt you and 
a switchin’ for once in yer life.” 

“Oh, it’s not that, but their worry—” 

“Will be over mighty soon, laddie. See the wagon’s 
at the gate. Lizzie, you’ll have to stay at home and see 
to things while I’m gone. Yer turned fourteen and 
should have some sense. If the little twins goes to pes¬ 
terin’ or playin’ off on you—well—daddy will be round 
to settle them. Molly better come along with me—time 
she learned to nurse anyhow. We’ll be gone a good 
spell likely—ship fever ain’t no fun to cure. The rest 
of you—hear me now—yer to mind Lizzie, and help her, 
and not be pesterin’ the calves ner climbing the wind¬ 
mill. She ’ll have work enough and bother to spare with¬ 
out you little uns layin’ yerselves out to be mean.” 

“Mary,” came daddy’s voice from the gate, “we’re 
ready, if you are.” 

The sleek bays swung into a bouncing trot down the 
lane and out into the high road, but the talk rattled even 
faster than the spinning wheels or the clicking hoofs. 
All had to be told and retold; and many times mammy 
cried, “For the landsakes!” and “Who ever would ha’ 
thought it”; and many times dear daddy said, “Thanks 
be to God and to His holy Mother!” 

By the time they reached the shore, food and rest and 
joy had given the lad his old spirit. He would have 
walked with the others while the double team strained 
through the heavy sand, but daddy said, “No,” and 
carried him as if he were a babe. 

At last a shout came from the cliff above them, on a 
far off crag a mighty figure stood out against the stars 
and the voice of Muckle John came ringing down. 

11 Seen a boy! A boy! Lost boy!! ” 


OUR LADY’S HOME BEYOND THE SEA 323 


Shannon lifted the lad in air and a voice no less 
strong than the skipper’s own answered. 

“Safe an’ sound! All’s well!” 

A light came and went among the rocks. 

“Why, there is the tent, daddy! I didn’t see it 
before. Let me jump down now and run ahead to tell 
them. ’ ’ 

“Give me the line, Joel. I’ll drive the rest of the way, 
walking by the wagon. You run along and help your 
mother,” called daddy as he dropped Gordon on the 
sand. 

A moment later Gordon lifted the tent flap and 
slipped down on his knees by his mother’s bed. 

“Son,” she whispered. “I heard you, dear. Oh, 
where have you been?” 

From outside Mary Shannon’s voice came in, that 
strong, quiet, cheeery tone which makes the sick breathe 
more easily by its very sound. 

“Now this is Jeanie, bless your dear heart, the boy 
told me all about you. My George—eh?—what’s that 
you call him? It’s George he’ll always be to me. My 
lad told us how you have been up night and day the 
dear knows how long. Now, if you’ll help me fix the 
poor lady on my feather bed—yes, I brought it—just 
bulky, not heavy at all—she can’t rest as she is. Molly 
is heating the milk—oh, she understands a camp fire. 
Don’t wmrry—but as soon as the lady is settled for the 
night, you go to bed and rest—now I won’t take ‘no,’ 
for an answer. I’m going to take the night nursing. 
You’re clean wore out. Molly will help in the day time, 
and the neighbor women will be down. Beat the eggs in 
—that’s a good girl—now bring it here till I put in the 
brandy. Where is George’s mother, poor soul?” 


324 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“0 mammy, right here!” came Gordon’s voice from 
the tent. “Now mother, you’ll have something better 
than rabbit soup.” 

“Is this Mistress Shannon?” Lady Margaret peered 
through the darkness. 

“Landsake, Molly, light a candle. Sure, mam, it’s not 
mistress I’m called—just plain Mary, mam, Mary Shan¬ 
non, and here wishin ’ I could be a little help to you. ’ ’ 

“You have done so much for me, and I have so often 
longed to see my good Mary Shannon.” 

“Sure, nothing did I ever do for great folk such as 
you, mam.” 

“Nothing save take my homeless babe to your heart 
and give him a mother’s love and a mother’s care.” 

“Whist! What else could I do, sweet little one that 
he was! Sure an’ it’s thankin’ you, I am, for lending 
him to me; and if you ’ll let me I ’ll be stealing him once 
in a while—but drink this now, dearie. ’ ’ 

Lady Margaret glanced about anxiously. 

“But Benson, my kind Mary, Benson needs it more 
than I.” 

“An’ Molly be takin’ her a cup right now. There’s 
enough for all and to spare. ’ ’ 

“Oh, mother, you don’t need to worry. Mammy 
always makes enough and to spare.” 

Lady Margaret smiled at the eager-eyed boy as she 
took the cup. 

“Gordon, have you seen your father, yet? Run and 
tell him how many rabbits you caught.” 

Gordon lifted the tent flap and hurried out. 

“Now everything is going to be all right. Where is 
father? Oh, yes, there he is halfway down the cliff. 
Ouch! Joel, don’t! Let go my ear! ’ ’ 



OUR LADY’S HOME BEYOND THE SEA 325 


“Well, come here then.” 

‘ ‘ I can’t, mother sent me! ’ ’ 

11 She didn’t say you couldn’t have some eggnog before 
you go, did she? Here, drink this. Yes, there’s plenty 
—about time you learned that.” 

Whether it was the rest or the joy or the hot eggnog, 
Gordon ran across the sand almost at the pace of a year 
ago. Bounding up the cliff, he caught his father’s hand. 

“I’m so sorry that I worried you, but I have some¬ 
thing better than soup for mother. ’ ’ 

* 4 My son, you have not begged, have you ? ’ ’ 

“Begged! 0 father, it was not begging, was it? Oh, 
you see, father, I didn’t think telling Daddy Shannon—” 

“Shannon—not John Shannon?” 

“Yes—oh—you didn’t know yet—I mean I haven’t 
told you—that’s why I forgot to come back—when I saw 
the Knob, I mean, I forgot—0 father—you are worn out 
hunting for me—” 

“Never mind, son, never mind.” 

“But I could just as well have come back if only I 
had thought, and—0 father!—here’s daddy!” 

The pioneer came forward shyly. He looked at the 
earl’s outstretched hand reverently, but did not take it. 
Sir James was great folk and, more than that in Shan¬ 
non’s eyes, he was a confessor of the Faith. 

“It ain’t for the likes of me to be shakin’ hands with 
the likes of you; but if there is any way I could be 
servin’ your lordship—” 

The earl caught that rough, toil-blunted hand in his. 

* * Perhaps it is not for such as me to clasp the hand of 
the man whom the Queen of Heaven chose to guard a 
child placed under her protection. But I have long 
wished to clasp your hand, John Shannon—” 


326 THE OUTLAWS OF RAVENHURST 


“Sure, an’ it’s the wrong man you have. ’Twas to 
Friar Cornwall our Lady gave the boy—it’s one of God’s 
own saints he is, sir—and that’s the man as is fit to shake 
hand with you, sir. ’ ’ 

But the earl still held that brawny hand. 

11 Shannon, this one thing I know; by rearing my boy 
in the Faith, you have done a kindness for me, which, if 
I he too poor to repay it, I can, at least, never forget. 
Now you come to add more favors. My good friend, 
your heart is as large as your body is stalwart; but I 
can not let you give us this great load of food. You 
must think—” 

“Sure! Are you makin’ game of the stingy bit I 
brought? I was afraid to put in half a load for fear of 
getting down in the sand. As soon as we can move you 
up on the bluff—” 

“But, my good Shannon, your kindness runs away 
with your judgment. There are your own children to be 
fed—” 

“And plenty to feed them with, Sir James, and plenty 
to spare. This bit of a load will last a day or two. The 
neighbors will be down to-morrow. I told them as we 
came along. Your cabins will be up tight and warm for 
winter—” 

“But, my good Shannon—” 

“Sure, keep yourself easy, sir. We always lend a 
hand to newcomers. The same was done for us when we 
landed.” 

“You must listen to me! You are robbing your own 
children! The winter—” 

“Will do them no harm—well fed and housed warm. 
Sure, this land of our Lady is not the old country, sir. 
As for crops—well, we always had plenty. But this year 


OUR LADY’S HOME BEYOND THE SEA 327 


I says to Mary, ‘What can the good Lord be thinkin’ 
about? He’s sent us four harvests at once. The best 
ears, long in cob and big in kernel, we’ll use for seed 
next year. This, that is so fine and solid, is for com meal 
and feed for horses, cattle, pigs and chickens. But what 
shall we do with all the rest? It’s not the quarter part 
we can use!’ Now I see the why of it. Our Blessed 
Lady knew she had more mouths to feed and sent the 
com before time. Sure, didn’t Jesus Christ Himself 
give us our Blessed Lady for our mother; and she is 
not going to turn stepmother here in Mary’s Land 
beyond the sea.” 






















































